


Full Circle

by MotherOfCatsAndDragons



Category: Neverwinter Nights
Genre: Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, Implied Incest, Magic, Prostitution, Romance, Self-Harm, Sexual Tension, Torture, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 21
Words: 279,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherOfCatsAndDragons/pseuds/MotherOfCatsAndDragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle against the King of Shadows, there's something still unresolved in Firanis's life. There is a darkness that threatens to consume her and the ever-present cold only one man brought to an end. Bishop fled and is now haunted by his decisions, his leaving the woman he loved too hard to bear. Through their battles, will they find each other again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very long, very thorough fanfic and my first attempt at writing something that was novel-length.

Her slim fingers moved a black piece; her musical voice sang. “Why bother so much with her? Wasn’t she but a pawn used to distract the Guardian?” She yawned, bored.

_“This, my dear, is a particular game.” He whispered with a voice that resembled the sound of the wind blowing on large, broken pipes._

_She arched a brow. “Is it? Why?”_

_His smirk froze her; his gaze burned her.  “A pawn has ascended into Royalty, my dear.” He knocked one of her Knights out of the tray with a pawn that was no longer a pawn. “In this particular game…” the other pieces adjusted to the change, and where the pawn had been now stood a taller, menacing woman, made of alabaster. “The King no longer rules.” The White King moved to the left side, no longer wearing a crown; she gasped and when he spoke next, it was in a cool, calculating tone.  “The main White piece is now the Queen.”_

 

****

**_Prelude_ **

_It was so cold…_

_So very cold…_

_“Why am I so cold, father?” the little girl asked, her misty blue eyes looking up at the elven man. He did not reply, so she tugged at his tunic. “Father?” she asked again, but still, her father did not respond. She screamed his name, but he never turned to her. Around her, everyone was complaining about the heat… But what heat? The air around her was chilling to the bones, and her teeth were clattering._

_The little girl with copper colored hair cried… or at least she thought she did, but it was so cold that the tears froze on her cheeks. “Father, I’m so cold…” she said, once again._

_But still, her father did not turn. She saw the people around her turn to flames, then to shadows, and they started moving in. Oh Gods, she was freezing… She couldn’t run away from the shadows which came closer, and her father acted as if everything was normal…_

_The shadows enveloped her, and she drowned in their darkness. She thought there would be pain, detachment and death… But she didn’t feel anything besides the cold…_

_Everything was cold…_

_So cold…_

### One

_Escape_

_Blizzard_

_Faith_

 

She was blown back and fell down; scrambling back to her feet, her eyes widened at the explosions of dark energy lashing out from the crumbling body which stood a few feet away from her; she felt something fall on the top of her head and looked up.

Everything was starting to fall down.

“We have to go!” Elanee shouted; she felt Zhjaeve’s light yet firm touch grasp her arm and drag her away. She stumbled, but didn’t fall. She started running; she _had_ to keep running, faster and faster until she reached the exit. Stones crumbled around her; a hand on her arm, this time stopping her, just in time to prevent a boulder from crashing down on her. She didn’t bother to find out to whom it belonged; turning to the right, she dashed to the pathway – the _only_ one left.

Someone was screaming behind her, but the voice was so distant, so distorted that she did not recognize it. She sprinted through the narrow corridor… why was she running, anyway? Why was she trying to save her life when she had nothing left to hold on to? She’s already done what was required of her - the destruction of the King of Shadows – and with that last battle, her reasons to live had been swept away…

She turned left and was faced with a wide, open room… Just a few more corridors, a few more twists and she’d be out… they’d all be out.

Her breath was coming out ragged and shallow now, and every single muscle of her body threatened to become stuck. She could easily give up now… no one needed her anymore… Her companions – the ones who hadn’t walked out on her – could still run to the exit… After all, it has _her_ who had dragged them down into this, so why would they have to pay with their lives as well?

She took a hand to her mouth and coughed, a warm liquid splattering on her thin gloves.  Her eyes widened… How could she have forgotten?

Blood finds a way. Always.

She watched as the exit corridor collapsed. She felt the others freezing behind her, but Gods, how could she have forgotten.

“Blood finds a way,” she turned to Ammon Jerro. “Always.”

Someone tried to drag her to another corridor which would lead to a place only the Gods knew; she shook the grip off and said those last sentences louder.

Jerro smirked. “Never would have thought of that. We best hurry, though.”

“Are you mad?” Neeshka burst into the conversation, despair evident on her voice. “We have to get out of here before this place collapses! Fira-” her mouth snapped itself shut when she noticed Firanis was cutting her right wrist open with a dagger.

Casavir tried to get a hold on the woman’s wrist. “Firanis, we have no time-“

She pulled back as if his touch burned her and plunged the knife deeper into her flesh. “Sand, create a portal design on the doorstep – I believe the dust is so thick that a mere touch of your finger will leave markings. Ammon,” she turned to the old warlock, smiling emptily. “It’ll lead us to where my blood is bound, right?”

A tight nod was what she received as a reply.

“Thought so.” Firanis wrapped a hand around her wound.

“This _is_ going to go wrong,” she heard Sand muttering under his breath as she approached him. “You know, Firanis, it _normally_ takes days to create a portal for a reason. The forms have to be perfectly designed and-”

“And we have no time!” she chided as she started to drip blood on the dust markings.

“And enchantments also have to be recited,” Sand went on, the monotony of his voice broken by the sudden consciousness of the crumbling floor.

Firanis smiled and said. “Blood is one key. Knowledge is another. Ammon?” she asked.

“I’ll guide you,” the warlock assented.

It seemed like hours, but only moments passed as Firanis and Jerro’s words echoed through the large room as pebbles started falling from the ceiling. Elanee muffled a scream when she saw a bright cocoon of light shining around Firanis, then turning to yellow, orange, pink, red; to a multitude of colors before getting so black that Firanis could no longer be seen. There was a churning on the druid’s stomach when the black cocoon burst into flames, and it became worse when the flames _spiraled_ out of Firanis’s figure and settled where her blood was on the floor with an explosion. After it, there was only a glowing light in that place.

Firanis staggered to one side, but the warlock caught her by the waist. She coughed out and blood trailed down her chin. With a weak movement, she grabbed her hair and cut it by the shoulders, where the loose plait began while murmuring something to Ammon Jerro and Sand.

The moon elf nodded and caught the plait from the ground and pulled out the lace at the end. “Our fearless leader has, for once, used her head and created a portal _out_.” He started undoing the plait and splitting various locks. “Each one of you, stop moping around and grab a lock before the sky falls down on our heads.”

“She has to go last,” Ammon tilted his head in the direction of Firanis’s barely conscious form; the woman’s lips moved, almost soundlessly, as if she guessed the other’s reactions before they began being voiced. “And she says “No arguing”.”

A boulder crashed down onto the floor, as if threatening them not to defy Firanis’s command.

Sand almost instantly jumped into the portal first; warily, Neeshka followed, and then Grobnar; Elanee threw Firanis’s a sorrowful look before going after the gnome; Casavir’s limbs moved when he was pushed by Zhjaeve who, before heading into the portal herself, touched Firanis’s forehead with a glowing finger.

“A beacon of light in the midst of darkness. Head towards it,” the Githzerai had whispered. Another boulder crashed down next to them. “Go, Ammon. I’ll follow.”

The warlock’s grip on her waist faded, and he crossed the threshold; the only thing he saw before arriving the destination was Firanis struggling to stay up.

And then, there was a deep, thunder voice saying, “The Portal has not yet closed.” Before chains were wrapped around his feet and wrists. Casavir screamed, trying to head towards the still open portal, but… devas were holding him; Elanee was crying; Neeshka was trying to free herself from the… chains of light which held her prisoner; Sand stared morosely at the ground, as if all the will had been drained from his mind; Khelgar was cursing so hard that the deva holding him had her eyes wide; Zhjaeve looked distraught, the neutrality of her being completely wiped from her face; and finally, the gnome was completely oblivious to the fact he was tied up, completely overwhelmed by his surroundings, with his jaw hanging open and bulging out eyes.

The portal shimmered; there was an explosion of white light.

A deva moved, just in time to catch a wobbling Firanis; blood – too much blood - spurted out of her mouth and nose… She choked on her breath and her eyelids fluttered open, and the tears which escaped them were red. 

“I see,” the male deva’s voice echoed. “Go get Guerryn.”

The sound of the Silver Sword of Gith clattering on the ground was heard as the deva holding down Khelgar nodded and flew away, her white wings spread wide around her; when they looked at where the male deva and Firanis had been, they were already gone.

Elanee looked down at the Sword; it was no longer glowing with its ethereal grey mist; now it seemed like a dusty piece of cold iron threatening to shatter at the slightest touch. “She is dying…” the druid feebly mused with tears still rolling down her slim cheeks; she, too, was chained, but she made no effort to break the white shackles around her wrists and feet.

Neeshka, however, struggled with her chains. “Just the plain statement we needed to hear, Elanee… A great boost in our morale, no doubt.” The tiefling wrinkled her nose to emphasize her sarcasm. “And will someone just tell me where in the Nine Hells are we? This place is making my skin feel itchy.”

Sand snorted, but he did not lift his face from the ground and when he spoke there was no hint of irony or malice on his voice. “More like where in the _Seven Heavens_ are we,  Neeshka. Our fearless and, apparently, also selfless leader is an aasimar – and it seems to me as well that her beloved ancestor was a high-ranking celestial.”

“But why-” Khelgar started.

Sand cut him off, guessing his question. “She did not have enough knowledge nor time to set a specific location to the Portal’s destination; after she babbled those sentences twice, I realized that what we needed was a circle,” the elf stopped, gulping dryly. Gods, why was it so hard to talk _now_? “a circle which would create a circuit that would combine the power of her blood with the eldritch magic she possesses. I figured that would be enough to rip open a pathway between planes – because he blood would _undoubtedly_ lead us to a place such as _this_.” He tilted his head to one side, but still did not dare to look up. “Then our friend Jerro here, with all his experience in opening portals and gateways between the Lower Planes and the Prime Material Plane in which we live, guided her _raw_ power so she could channel it the right way and here we are.”

“And Firanis is dying!” Elanee shouted before she let out a sob.

“She knew there would be a price the moment she stopped running,” Ammon coolly noted. “And she chose to pay it, druidess.”

“You could have refused it!” Elanee bit down her lip to prevent another sob from escaping it. Jerro laughed miserably.

“We both know that it wouldn’t have led us anywhere.”

Someone exhaled. It was Zhjaeve, who had her eyelids closed as if she was meditating. “I wonder if the price for _our_ lives won’t be too high, though.”

Her sentence was the only thing hanging between them as the silent following hours passed.

 

 

There was pain… so much pain…

She was walking barefoot on the snow. The sky above was completely blocked by a grey mist, which was also spreading around her, blocking her view of the path; so, she kept walking forward. Her feet were numb, but she still felt needles sting them every time she set them down on the ground again; the cold wind, as if it’d been split and reshaped into sharp knives, sliced at her legs; she realized she was completely naked when she looked down and saw a thin trail of blood making its way down her thighs. An emotion flooded her, but she couldn’t discern which one was it because her body was completely frozen… But it felt like… _shock_. But why shock?

Her abdomen throbbed so hard that she thought she was going to be broken in half. Her breasts ached; her breath seemed to freeze on her throat before she could expel it. And, after it, came chilling blood.

Gods, why was she in so much pain?

She kept walking forward. If she looked back, maybe there would be an answer; thus, she closed her eyes tightly and tried to remember.

Blood. A white, glistening light where only shadow had been before; her power being channeled through a portal. Blood.  Cries of surprise, resignation and fear. Shadows and… more blood. Betrayal… Eyes… Eyes of the same color as melted honey, boring into her, scrutinizing her, seizing her… reading her. She felt something stir within her when she remembered those eyes, but _what_?

She was so numb… she couldn’t feel anything besides the pain… But those eyes… She focused on them, tried to find why they whirled her mind beyond the hurting. She saw them in lots of ways… far, close, alert, distasteful, surprised, mocking, glazed… there was a time in which she could _swear_ those eyes even showed care. But she wasn’t sure… _Why_ wasn’t she sure?

She tried to remember what surrounded the eyes… And found shadows; shadows dancing, enveloping, twisting and turning around them, as if the eyes were haunted. But even though those eyes of honey were disturbed, she felt herself trying to smile, but all her frozen features allowed was a mere light lift of the corners of her lips.

Why did she like those eyes?

She started to look below them, then, but her memory was suffering and the traces of the rest of the face were faint. And Gods, the pain was becoming unbearable now! She could no longer keep walking as the wind threatened to throw her down, as the falling snow started to crush her with its intensity.

She screamed, but she had no voice; it was frozen.

_You’re cold._

She looked up. Who was that?

_You know why I’m here, so don’t play innocent; hypocritical people are the worst thing there is._

But she did not know. _Truly_ , she did not know.

_So, it’s a curse. Only we can feel it. As far as I’m concerned, that isn’t too bad._

She gasped, but the blizzard wind made her teeth and throat ache. _Curse?_

_You’re growing colder. Why?_

Her legs gave in and she fell flat on the snow. Why was the voice speaking over the blistering blizzard? And why couldn’t she remember its owner?

_This has to end._

There was a searing pain on her back, as if she’d been stabbed there; she opened her mouth and this time, she heard her own screams escaping it. Everything surrounding her was pure white, except for the stain of blood under her which tainted the snow with its red color.

She felt the voice grow silent; still, she did not remember to whom it belonged… but she felt something for it… something so deep that it reached her in the midst of this blizzard.

There were Celestials all over the room, circling a bed, hands united, their lips moving in almost silent prayers. Casavir approached the circle and saw Firanis, glowing softly with a white light, lying inert on the bed, dried blood covering the soft lines of her face; and holding one of her hands was a male deva, his head bowed down so that all that could be seen of him was his bright curly red hair.

“She was far away,” the deva who’d brought him here said. “But not so far away that we could not reach her.”

“So she’ll live?” Casavir asked hoarsely. Why was there so much blood around her when she’d only been bleeding from her mouth and nose?

The deva nodded. “We’re not completely sure, but yes, she most likely will. We fear more for the other, though.”

  _The other?_ Casavir said to himself; the deva, as if he’d read his mind, answered. “Yes. She bears another life inside her, though I wonder for how long.”

The Paladin’s light blue eyes widened in astonishment. “Excuse me,” he said before leaving the room; the others were outside, expectant looks on their faces as he closed the door.

“How is she?” Elanee asked from her seat, her hands wrapped in each other as she tried to control their seemingly incessant trembling.

Casavir pursed his lips; Tyr be blessed, why was he shaking? “They said she’ll most likely recover, but-”

“That’s great news, right?” Neeshka stopped his sentence with her brisk comment. “I mean, she’s pretty bad now, but she’ll get better and-”

“And she’s pregnant.”

A swift, cutting silence filled the room; Sand had stopped his pacing and was staring at Casavir with his eyebrows raised; Elanee’s nails were digging so deep into her skin that they cut it; Neeshka coughed as if she’d been trying to swallow the information, but had choked on it; Khelgar had his jaw hanging open; Grobnar muttered a “Oh Gods.”; Zhjaeve and Ammon, however, looked completely unsurprised, with her patiently watching the group and he simply shrugging.

“You _knew_?” Neeshka directed her question at both the Githzerai and warlock.

“I felt it; I am attuned to such things,” Zhjaeve stated.

“And it’s kind of unsurprising because that, even with all the pillow play going on, she never took any potions when we were out of the Keep,” Jerro added.

“She _didn’t_?” Sand intervened as if someone had just insulted him. “All the trouble in making them and she didn’t even _bother_ take them in secret?”

“You-” Elanee’s voice was cut off by a deafening scream coming from the healing room; it was horrible, so horrible that Elanee had to shut her eyes tightly and bite her tongue to prevent herself from screaming as well.

“Doubt assaults our hearts,” Zhjaeve softly spoke once the wail had died out. “And in such doubts lies her death. No matter how betrayed you feel, or how neglected you think you’ve been… She never said anything that she thought would hurt any of us; and she did not lie to any of us either.” She paused, removing the veil from her spotted yellow face; her thin lips were parted in a stern sigh. “As long as we believe that she will be saved, she will. Question her intentions, her motivations, her strength… and she will be lost.”

Her dull gold eyes glistened with tears. “Firanis won’t have a reason to come back if we do not welcome her among us anymore. But,” she bit down her lower lip, “it’s not only in our hands. Others – one in particular – will have to believe as well.”

Khelgar snorted. “So, in the end, if a human who surpasses even _Tieflings_ at backstabbing – no offence, fiendling,” the dwarf quickly added to ease a frowning Neeshka, “does not _believe_ in her, she’ll die anyway.”

Zhjaeve tilted her head back and breathed in and out several times before replying, “Even with everything that was said and done, she did not doubt him; hence I do not doubt him. Do you?”

“I do…” Khelgar stopped his words and smirked; if blind faith was the cost of Firanis’s life, he was willing to believe a lie as big as that one. Hells, even if he had to believe Faerûn came out of a hole in the ground of the Multiverse, he would, so as long as the waif got to see better days than _this_ one. After all, even though she had omitted something from them, that did not mean that she deserved to be scorned for the rest of her life and by Tyr’s right buttock, it also did not mean that he did not trust her! So, he added another word to his sentence. “Not.”

Zhjaeve nodded at him and, for the first time in the hours they’d been here waiting, there was relief on her features.

 

 

“I can’t believe they’re all dead.” Bevil heavily fell on a chair of the War Room; there was a strange emptiness about it now, and the relief of the end of the War could not be found anywhere within the Keep.

“No one wants to, Bevil,” Nevalle gravely whispered, sauntering to a corner and leaning there, in the shadow. “We were ready to die in the battle and lose everything along with our lives; we were ready to win as well… But no one was prepared for _this_.”

With her elbows on the table, Kana’s hands were placed firmly at the sides of her head, holding it. “Either we all went down, or we all survived. Sure, there would always be casualties, but… no one even considered that they all… especially Firanis, would be among them.”

“They can’t be dead,” Bevil stated; Nevalle looked at him with weary eyes, wishing he’d just shut up and _stop_ repeating that sentence in such desperate tone… It was as if he didn’t trust his own words.

And truly, who did? Merdelain’s walls had crashed down and no one had come out before then; no one could survive tons worth of stone crumbling on top of them, _no one_. Not even the Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep. And that crude, bare reality was crushing.

The funny thing about this all was that he’d hated Firanis in the beginning; thought she was no more than a dishonorable, sleazy, backstabbing, despicable, selfish thief who enjoyed wreaking havoc in the streets of a city… until he met her. At first, he’d thought he was mistaken, for she seemed such a frail thing, with her light movements and soft words; she could not be, in any way, the one who’d murdered a whole village; but still, he couldn’t let her go off the hook so easily – plus, she _could_ be hiding her emotions. So, he waited; he waited to see what she _really_ was like.

And she was not the person he’d thought her to be. And for that, he was glad.

“I fear we won’t hold long now; Crossroad Keep, I mean,” Kana murmured shyly, interrupting his trail of thought, daring to look up at the two men who were with her.

The Knight of the Nine arched a brow, which was enough for the female sergeant to fixate her gaze on the table again before saying, “She was the heart of this place, Sir Nevalle. She had a… way of handling things which is… rare to see nowadays.”

 _That_ was exactly what he meant. The aasimar knew how to turn a blind eye when it was needed, and it had been because of that that the Keep had prospered so much in only a few months. Oh, he’d chided her for not abiding the Law; she was, after all, a Knight of the Nine: she had to set an example. But, upon spending a few months on the Keep, organizing the War Effort, she’d made him understand that, when in charge of people, one needed to look at what would benefit them as a whole and restrain oneself from doing things which would shun one’s people away. And without them, there would be nothing but walls for her to defend.

“And Sir Nevalle, you have to agree, as sturdy and as polished as they might be, walls are quite the dull things when you try talking to them.”

In that aspect, Kana was right: Firanis was the heart of the Keep. “As long as we keep this place alive,” Nevalle said aloud, “she will remain so as well.”

He’d taught her in weapons – and she’d taught him in people. So, for what she’d struggled to build, they’d struggle to maintain whole; because one day, she’d return.

One day…

 

“What do you mean she’s dead?” Axle said in his calm, deep voice, piercing Uncus with his dark brown eyes.

The other thief held his hands up in an excusing manner. “It’s what I saw, my Lord,” he’d said that word with obvious disdain, “Axle. Merdelain’s Walls crumbling and no sign of the Lady of Crossroad before or after that.”

Axle only sighed before dismissing the underling. _This_ was an unexpected setback. The aasimar had been an important key towards opening the heavily locked door which led to the hegemony of the Shadow Thieves in Neverwinter; with her gone, things would undoubtedly prove to be more… difficult.

No, he couldn’t allow himself to be overthrown by anyone, now that Firanis wasn’t at Crossroad Keep to make certain things easier. He needed to keep the Shadow Thieves who were operating in Neverwinter under his control, lest he’d be nothing but another has-been gang leader starving on the streets.

Well, he hadn’t become the head of this branch of Thieves for nothing; he’d most certainly find a way around this… and with luck, he might even use Firanis’s past ties to him to strengthen his word.

Yes, _she_ was the key. Alive or dead, she was still one of the Nine, and one of Nasher’s favorites. Whether she was in the Nine Hells of in the Seven Heavens, she was still respected, and so were her former Alliances. And so was _he_.

Axle smiled a crooked, dry smile.

Who’d say the dead could be so useful?

 

If I had been like you back then, maybe you’d never have to go through this sacrifice.

Firanis looked up. It was not the same voice she’d heard before… this one was raspy, yet strangely deep and wise; she knew it, but at the same time, it was something completely foreign to her.

And not only you… but others as well.

She cocked one eyebrow. Firanis knew that what was being said should have some meaning to her… So why did it lack it?

Where I failed, you succeeded… It’d be unfortunate indeed if your ending is something as pitiful as this.

For moments, there was a spark of lucidity in her confused mind. _Jerro_ , Firanis said to herself, but just as she was ready to scream out for help, another voice came… A voice so calm, so focused, that it calmed the itch of her skin, closed the gaping wound on her back.

Hold yourself together, Firanis. Your journey isn’t over yet.

Firanis squatted down on the snow. _Zhjaeve?_ Her mind whispered.

You fought for so many, Kalach-cha… It’s time to fight for yourself now.

Firanis thought she was crying, but nothing came out of her eyes. She was so tired, and so frozen, and so hurt… she just wanted to let go and let the blizzard bury her in its fury.

It’s almost funny to know that all this time, when people have been saying I am cursed, that you’re the one who’s been eternally doomed… But it’s not. Nope. Not a single bit.

Neeshka? Firanis blinked and reached out with her arms to the misty sky. Neeshka!

Oh, well, Firanis… Cursed or not… I don’t want you to bleed to death, okay? Even though you got lots of things wrong, and made lots of mistakes, this isn’t the price you have to pay.

Firanis wrapped her arms around herself, her nails digging deeply into her flesh. She jumped forward, in the direction of the voice, but fell square on her face; the ice numbed it even more than it already was, and her lips began to burn.

Because I… like you, get it?

Neeshka’s voice vanished; the aasimar tried to lift herself up from the snow, but her arms gave in and she fell again.

It was the most amazing thing, Firanis!

She breathed into the snow and rolled over.

The lights, the shimmering, the shadow… I’d never thought it possible! But it was terrifying, too.

A hoarse cry escaped her throat. _Grobnar?_ She willed her body to move, but all it did was twitch violently.

Just don’t go to Shandra yet, please? I know you miss her and all, but I think she’d just kill you over and over again if you died now.

She would have smiled if her face weren’t so stiff.  

Grobnar’s chirpy voice faded, muted down by the blizzard’s winds. Firanis gasped as she felt the iron-like skin of her legs split in a thousand cuts.

_For every God in every single pantheon, deity and demipower, Firanis, you’re making a show._

Firanis frowned. Dry, witty, sarcastic… _Sand._ She acknowledged, lightly biting into her crusted lower lip.

Just come back quickly so we can go home. Please? It’d be no fun to travel only with people who have an intellect of the size of a shrunk pea and can’t discern irony from appreciation.

She breathed in, centering herself.

Plus, we can’t get back without you; so, if you die, how will I ever get to undermine, chide, mock and humiliate Torio again?

Even though she felt calmer now, the severe pain on her abdomen gradually increased with the last of Sand’s sardonically pathetic comments. She opened her mouth to scream again, but she did not hear anything escaping it.

I watched you for so long…

            She coughed, and blood surged on her mouth. The ice seemed to be slowly melting off, but the blizzard was so powerful, that the melted ice was soon replaced.

            _In the end, you became like a child to me, Firanis._

            A thin, lazy sunbeam touched her face. The aasimar thought of that voice, of its serene, understanding warmth and bashful gentleness. _Elanee?_

            _I guess a mother must feel so tied down like this when her child is dying._

Firanis fought, but she was powerless against the blizzard’s vicious fury; _Elanee! Elanee, don’t worry… Please, I can’t see anymore of you hurt…_

Firanis?

She tilted her head. Deep, quiet, cool… _Casavir_ , her senses whispered.

I bore so much for you already… But please…

She had to close her eyes; her whole body ached with the now burning touch of the snow… But at least now she wasn’t numb… Now she could feel.

Don’t make me bear the sight of your lifeless body.

Casavir was… sad? Yes, he was sad. But why? Had she hurt him that much? Possibly, because her heart ached with something that resembled guilt… Guilt because she could not _love_ him in the amount he deserved… because _that_ part of her heart had already been given to someone…

She gulped down. Yes, she’d given herself – in body, heart and soul - to someone…

But to _whom_?

 _Ye’re tougher than this, girl!_ This voice was like a hammer falling on steel, and it pounded at her senses with every syllable. _I’m not going to let ye die_ now _! We need to get back home ‘nd gloat, and get really pissed, ye hear?_

Her fingers twitched when Khelgar’s last words broke down into echoes.

 _‘Nd we’ll get_ well _past the twelfth tankard, I promise ye!_ His grunt-like voice stubbornly returned again before vanishing for good. Her body seemed to gain new strength and she snorted, remembering the last time she’d drowned herself in ale with… Khelgar, Neeshka and… someone else.

 _That_ same someone who held the last – and the biggest – pieces of her.

Firanis got up to her knees with great effort; her whole body seemed to be made of the heaviest, rustiest metal, moving only when great strength and effort were applied. But she _had_ to get up and she _had_ to walk.

But she couldn’t.

 

 

It had been days.

Daeghun emerged from the forest, twigs, leaves and dirt embedded on his clothes, hair and skin.

His daughter. His light-hearted, ever-understanding daughter. _Buried_ under Merdelain. _Buried_ under the weight of a nation. _Buried_ so she could save them. _Buried_ so the survivors would smile and cherish their lives in the hearth of a family.

But what about _her_? What about Firanis? She wouldn’t.

Had it been partially his fault? He’d always been distant, afraid to tie himself and his daughter down to each other, so when a thing such as this happened, none of them would be dragged down by feelings of loss…

But it had been worthless.

In the end, she _really_ was his daughter. He’d raised her from babe, to teenager, to adult, and she’d become someone he was proud of… and someone he loved.

After Shayla and Esmerelle’s deaths… There had been a spark of a new beginning, a glimpse of light… there had been Firanis. Were the Gods so cruel that they’d take everything from him _yet_ again? How could… how could he allow himself the luxury of feelings that, whenever he opened himself to them again, he’d always, _always_ end up with a maimed heart?

Daeghun steadied himself against a tree.

Her body had not been found. Stone had been removed, earth had been dug, but everything that was left was her _cloak_ , not her body. Not even the _Sword of Gith_.

Some said she’d been consumed by the last of the shadow; some said that she had to sacrifice herself, and turn into light with the powers of the Ritual so the King would be _truly_ destroyed.

But there was _no body_.

And so, he’d keep searching. He would keep searching because his daughter _was not dead!_ And he _would_ find her, alive and well.

 

_Child…_

She gasped. _That_ voice…

I can’t lose everything again…

“Father!” Firanis was aiming for a shout, but all she managed was a petty whisper.

Come back…

 _Now_ , tears fell. _Now_ , her breath clouded the chilly air of the blizzard. _Now,_ she could get up and walk. _Now_ …

She had to find the rest of her pieces.

 

“It’s been a month,” a quiet, resonating voice stated behind his back.

He closed his eyes fiercely, pulling the ale mug closer to his chest. _Not again…_ “What do you want, kid?”

“Did you know that, in the end, the only shadow that remains, is the one we have in our own souls?” she said while skirting around his hunched figure to sit beside him.

He sneered, “I don’t feel like philosophizing with you.”

He saw her pouting through the corner of his eye. “But you should.” She critically squinted at his ale mug. “Besides, alcohol is not a good liquid to drown in. Mom always says the hangover is worse than the sorrows you’re trying to bury.”

One of the corners of his mouth lifted. “Your mother, kid, is a backstabbing thief and assassin.”

“And _you_ , Mister, are a backstabbing liar and coward, so forgive me if I don’t respect your opinion.” The look he gave her would have been enough to make people scurry away in fear; she only smiled. “There’s a reason you’re still here.”

He gulped down some of his ale, ignoring her.

“You can’t let go.”

His expression became sour; his lips trembled. This kid had been driving him mad for at least three days, always bantering on and on about life, and the world, and the past and the ominous struggle of the living soul; why couldn’t she go away and bother someone else who’d actually pay attention to her?

“The blizzard is strong… But you’ve reached her among it before, haven’t you?” she straddled herself back and forth on the chair, her nonchalant movements making him dizzy; the ale was starting to take its toll on his mind and he’d better start thinking about going upstairs to his room and sleep. Yes, _sleep_ ; sleep and forget everything during those blissful, unconscious hours…

“Oh, you’ll end up dreaming about her, don’t worry,” the girl’s strangely vibrating voice grasped his attention again. “Because…” her tone deepened to a mythical, sultry, wise rumble. “When you break a soul after it had a taste of wholeness, it’ll wail and cry until it’s complete again.”

Her furrowed his brow at her, turning his face to fully look into the girl’s calm, icy blue eyes. “Just _what_ are you exactly, kid?”

She seemed taken aback by his question, because her jaw was left hanging open for some very long moments; then, her appalled look became a smile, but it was filled with pain and sadness. “I’m the Twice-damned. The Homeless. The Unbelonging.”

The girl gracefully leapt out of the chair, strands of bright red hair flowing behind her lithe figure. “There are betrayals of many kinds, and some can never be forgiven.” She giggled light-heartedly, her eyes shining with joy. “You betrayed her feelings; yours, too. I…” she looked down, sheepishly, before nodding with some newfound conviction. “I think you should at least think about which ones you let down on the first place. And then…”

The look she gave him was as choking as a tight rope around his neck. “And then, you should face them.”

He smirked, cocky. “Should I? What do _you_ know of life, kid? What do you know of the things you speak of?” he sized her up with his heavy gaze. “You’re like, eight? Well, forgive me if you think I’ve been lending a deaf ear, but I’m not following a kid’s advice.”

Her back was already turned to him by the time she shrugged. “I never said you had to.”

 

 

Firanis kept on walking.

“ _Lady,_ ” whispered someone; the aasimar turned back and nearly lost balance when she saw a small, thin redheaded girl standing in front of her, untouched by the wrath of the blizzard.

“Who…” Firanis’s throat dried immediately after she’d pronounced that first word; she took a hand to it, massaging the cold skin.

“ _It does not matter, Lady._ ” The girl smiled. “ _This place is of fury; of madness; of division. That is why I can reach you here._ ”

“Why am…” Firanis coughed, pain searing her vocal cords.

“ _It’s a refuge of the soul, I think. Or maybe it’s where your soul is bound to.”_

The girl approached her, each step she took made her seem bigger, ancient, wiser, and suddenly, there was not a small, meek child with her anymore; there was a woman, with a delicate sharp complexion, thin lips, small nose and the most exquisitely shaped eyes Firanis had ever seen; eyes of a blue so transparent, that they resembled ever-running water; eyes shining with such a bright insight of this world that, when under their scrutinizing, _she_ was the child, naïve and clueless. Her long red hair contrasted with the glacial landscape, ebbing and flowing around her at its own free will…

And then, there were the wings, black, like the depths of the abyss, their feathers spreading wide and free behind her, moving with the thick wind as she closed down the distance between them with steps that seemed to make her curves undulate, slither, _whisper_.

The girl who was no longer a girl touched her; Firanis’s skin didn’t react to her at first, but slowly – very slowly – she felt it pulsating, throbbing!

“ _Frimma, the Frozen Fire,”_ the girl who was no longer a girl murmured. “ _The one who sees good where others think there’s none; the one who loves that which thinks it can’t be loved; the one who made darkness wish for light...”_ her ebony wings twitched and spread to the sides before closing around them, enveloping them both in shadow – a shadow which was countered by a light that was seeping from her own skin!

“ _The part of your soul which you are searching for now, won’t come to you yet,”_ the girl’s… no, the _woman’s_ twisted voice dripped sadness and sympathy. “ _It’s left a deep, agonizing wound in its place…”_ the woman bit into her lower lip as the fingers of her free hand tenderly grazed Firanis’s chest. “ _You will have to live with it, with incompleteness, until what you lost is returned to you._ ” She took a step back, and the _woman_ ’s frame started diminishing until she became a child again. “ _Please, do not despair, Lady…”_

Before the frozen landscape shattered and slowly started to fade away, as if it were being pulled, ripped from where she was standing, an unclear smile flickered on the girl’s lips and her old, ever-knowing voice softly crooned, “ _You two will meet again._ ”

Firanis started falling, falling into a void, and the more she fell, the farther the blizzard was. A whisper; a caress; a promise; emotions, unleashed; confusion; emotions so strong that they threatened to make her heart explode; a love, requited, but forsaken out of fear; a smile; a backstab; a plea; a hope…

Air seemed to invade her lungs, and the shock of that sudden realization made her choke on it. No longer insensitive, she could discern all the emotions flooding her now, and the memories - the _recent_ memories – plunging into her, twisting and turning around her like currents of thought.

And, after three months of winter, after the maiming blizzard threatened to cover her, the spring breezes blew into her, and Firanis finally awoke from her slumber.

 


	2. Aria: Bons, Meetings, Weakness

**_Aria_ **

 

_She moved a black piece across the board._

_“Quite peculiar, my dear.” He assessed her play with a most curious expression. She smiled; he hated that cruel, calculated smile – or_ any _smile from her, for the matter – as her features were of a kind which was clearly not made for such a thing._

_“It’s called “playing in advance”, honey.” She intertwined her long, thin fingers and settled her chin on them. Her cold eyes traced the corners of the tray and all the white pieces before she hissed, “Your turn now.”_

 

**Two**

_Bonds_

_Meetings_

_Weakness_

 

Her blurry sight focused slowly… she was on a bed, surrounded by weary-looking devas whose hands soothed the pain she’d been feeling before; her feet did not ache, her legs did not felt cut, her throat was dry, but not sore, her lips were only slightly crusted when she ran her tongue over them; her arms managed to hold her weight when she pulled herself up to a sitting position… but her abdomen… her abdomen was _swollen_!

Firanis gasped; a hand rested on her shoulder, and she turned to it, meeting a gaze which mirrored her own.

“At last, my child,” his voice was like the sea washing ashore, with an edge of tranquility and comfort about it, along with unmasked relief.

Firanis blinked, her mind still absorbing the shock of her swollen abdomen and the environment she’d woken up into. When she opened her mouth to speak, a glass of water was pressed against it – and she was aware of how _thirsty_ she was. Firanis began drinking the cool, soft water with eagerness, but choked on it and had to cough; then she calmed down and drained the glass dry, and then another and another.

The first words that escaped her lips were blunt, queer, but not a single bit unpredictable. “ _Your_ child?” she asked hoarsely, clearing her throat afterwards. The man – possibly one of the most beautiful beings she’d ever laid eyes on - smiled in comprehension. “Why? And where am I? What happened to the others? How come do I have a swollen stomach? Why-“

The river of questions she was asking became so strong, so thick, that the deva in front of her gained an astonished look, completely taken aback by how she could blabber so many words with that croaky, weak voice after _three months_ of deep slumber.

He breathed out; she inhaled, swallowing her words. “You are a child of my child, hence, a child of mine,” he started explaining, slowly and in a monochord tone, giving her time to take in and settle all of his words. “And you _do_ remember creating a portal to this place, don’t you?”

She half-closed her eyes and looked down, away from him, with a hand on her chin. “A _portal_ …” Firanis repeated, unsure, seemingly struggling with her memory. “Yes, I remember. A portal bound by blood, with blood, to escape the Vale of Merdelain.”

The man squeezed her shoulder. “Good. I am Guerryn.” He introduced himself. “The one whose blood is bound to yours.”

“You’re my…”

“Grandfather.”

Firanis stared, perplexed, at the man, her breath irregular; it took her a while to let the words sink. “My grandfather…” the aasimar muttered, shyly. “So, you’re my father’s father…” she gulped down dryly.

He nodded. “Yet it is you who are the most alike to me.”

Firanis inhaled again, sharply; she wanted to enquire him about her father – and about her mother as well, since Daeghun had been so dedicated to making it a secret, – but she had more pressing concerns now, and decided to let _this_ matter rest for now, and asked, “What about my friends?”

“They are fine. We’ve settled them nearby, here in Empyrea,” he replied. “They were reluctant to leave your side; even as you screamed, they stood by you, holding your hand, no matter how painful it was for them to watch you like that. They are… most dedicated to you, Firanis. You should be grateful.”

She smiled wryly, tiredly. “And I am.” The aasimar then pointed to her abdomen and asked the deva – her _grandfather_ – why it was that way. And he answered.

It was not that she wasn’t expecting that response: Firanis had started suspecting it ever since she’d started eating double and throwing up in the morning as if she was with a hangover. No, the surprise she felt creeping over her was not due to that; it came because Firanis found herself relieved and strangely happy and she didn’t know _how_ she could feel so when the father had left her, when he’d hurt her beyond words and sentiments, when he…

Firanis shook her head. Who was she kidding? Yes, she was still angry, but… truly, she did not regret anything that had led to _this_ point - not even that backstab. So, this child… _Her_ child; _their_ child was motive enough for her to keep on, and not a motive of shame or a constant mirror of depression.

The door to her room opened and a very content Neeshka stepped through it. “I knew you’d come back, Firanis!” the tiefling said so gleefully that Firanis felt the pleasant warmth spreading further within her.

 “Thank the Gods, she’s woken up!” Sand exclaimed as soon as he crossed the doorway and stepped forward to kneel by Firanis’s side and take one of her hands. “Do you have any idea of how uncontrolled they can get when there’s no one to lead them around?” the anguish on Sand’s light blue eyes amused Firanis to no end, and she found herself stifling a laugh.

“Was it that bad?” the aasimar asked.

Sand smirked. “No, I mean… Neeshka kept complaining about the itch,” the tiefling let out a “hey!” at him, but Sand didn’t seem to notice it, “Elanee kept going on and on about cities in the clouds and Grobnar!” the moon elf exhaled. “I swear if I have to listen to him just for another minute, I’ll throw him out of the window, and—”

Firanis interrupted him with a gentle nod. “Glad to know you missed me.”

Sand’s mouth snapped shut all of a sudden; it took him a while before he blinked and patted Firanis on the hand. “You just don’t know how good it is to have another person with a small sense of sanity around—”

Neeshka frowned and cut in, “Sand, I think we’re not all entirely insane, you know?”

The moon elf held up a hand in dismissal. “Yes, you keep telling yourself that, Neeshka, and maybe someday it will happen.” He rose from the ground. “But you know, Firanis, that three month beauty sleep didn’t do much good to you, girl.”

 _Such a nice “welcome back”…_ the aasimar wrinkled her nose at Sand and crossed her arms over her chest. “Thank you, Sand.”

“You’re welcome, Firanis,” Sand retorted, his lips raised in a half-teasing, half-concerned smile that said what his stubborn mouth could not – but the vague smile vanished into a gawp when someone bumped into him; Firanis had to smile when Elanee crossed the room to embrace her tightly, also shoving Guerryn aside in the process. “I’m so glad you’re back,” the wood elf muttered in her ear.

Firanis was returning Elanee’s warm gesture when Khelgar strode into the room, his loud, grumping voice rolling down into her ears. “What took ye so long, lass?” Elanee broke the hug when he dwarf climbed onto the bed to pat Firanis’s back vigorously, making her exhale the air inside her lungs with each hit.

“Khelgar!” the aasimar complained, extending a hand to catch the dwarf’s, but she heard her bones crack as she put the slightest strength into her movements; her eyes widened when she involuntarily shrieked.

Khelgar shook his head. “I always told ye too much sleep was bad for yer health,” he fell back on the ground, serious.

Did she really look that bad?

She must, because when she asked for a mirror, the five people in the room exchanged looks of worry. She insisted, and her grandfather said that there were none in the room.

“And it’s not that you look hideous, Firanis,” Neeshka hurriedly added after Guerryn’s denial. “You just,”

“Don’t look healthy,” Sand completed.

Firanis lifted both of her eyebrows. “Like?”

She heard Elanee sigh loudly. “She hasn’t practically eaten for _three_ months, Sand. It’s not surprising that she is so thin.”

“Except for her stomach,” Firanis thought Khelgar was muttering under his breath… But was it really just a mutter? She was… tired, now, and her stomach complained about the lack of something solid inside it.

There was a yawn. Her grandfather had said she’d been asleep for three months, but it felt like she’d been in a deep, restless struggle that whole time. The dream of the blizzard… No, not a dream; she knew her soul had been in that place, away from her body and had only returned now – after all, it was what the woman, or the girl, or whatever she was had said: that place was a refuge for the soul, and her soul had been fighting the cruel, furious forces that were somehow keeping her away from herself.

Three months… that had been a long strife, hadn’t it?

When her companions stopped bickering at each other, they finally realized Firanis had her eyes peacefully closed, involved in a comforting dark mantle which was commonly known as a dreamless, undisturbed sleep for the first time in a long while.

 

 

In the room of glass walls and floor, she heard the world scream and shout before it quieted down to whispers and murmurs and felt it bouncing and jumping for moments before all she felt it do was slither and shiver, like the waters in the silver trimmed crystal basin. Slowly, the waters rose and began gaining a shape… the shape of an enlarged chess tray, with the most exquisite set of pieces she’d ever seen.

There was White and Black. Most of the White pieces shielded the Queen, as if she were the most important piece instead of the King; the Black Knights – a beautiful, tantalizing woman with perfectly shaped body curves and a man, shrouded in shadows - were carefully placed on neighbor squares, and the King and the Queen waited for the right chance to move forward. She studied the Black pieces more carefully; there was a charred-winged figure standing on one of the pawn’s places, and that was one she knew all too well; after all, she’d been among those who’d sentenced him almost nine years ago.

Shaking her head, she examined the other pawns: a stern woman with a book; a female Halfling with daggers; an orc wearing heavy armor and the most sadistic smile she’d ever contemplated; a male elf with a scarred face and burning hands; a female human shouldering a bloodied long axe; the last one had crumbled to dust, as if it was out of the game already. The rooks were a man of ebony wood, petting a snake and a hawk, and a woman who seemed to be made of shiny dark iron, a variety of missile weapons flying around her.

But the strangest thing was that, when she was looking for the two Black Bishops, she found only one, in the form of what seemed to be a female half-drow Priest who seemed to be held by chains and whips; and then, there was a Grey Bishop – the single Grey piece in the tray -  standing in the borderline of the Alabaster and Ebony parts, as if casting himself away from them; he had a longbow in a hand, while in the other there was a liquid, shimmering piece which ebbed and flowed around his half-open fist… she identified it as a piece of a soul – or many pieces, put together in a very messy way.

Her graceful forehead became wrinkled when she also discovered that there was only one Bishop in the White side, embodied by a… girl? Or was it a woman? Either way, she could not be sure, but she had black feathery wings and a tail – which gave away her Lower Planes heritage - and she recognized the way the… woman had her hands placed in: that was one of the stances Truenamers used when proclaiming an Utterance.

Black, White and Grey… How queer.

The two White Knights were two men: one, very handsome, with a blue uniform with an embroidery of a white eye and the other had every characteristic reminiscent of a panther: patient gaze, predatory stance and dark skin; the rooks were two women – most likely sisters, because their features were somehow similar – one with a Longbow and chinking bracelets and the other with disconcerting yellow eyes. But… there was another one! Yes, a third Rook instead of a King, a woman wearing the sneer and clothes of a temptress! Appalled, her transparent eyes finally moved to the White Queen, standing between a square of pieces and widened when she saw her alabaster face, the tranquil smile so different from the pained, struggling expression she was used to see in her.

Guerryn’s granddaughter… Firanis Hlaetlarn, surrounded by every single one of her present companions, their faces clouded by grim determination and devotion; but the aasimar’s eyes… they weren’t on either of her ever-faithful companions, and her smile wasn’t entirely for them…

It took her awhile to realize who the Queen was staring at; and when she did, the tray began rippling and broke down into thin rails of water which fell heavily into the crystal basin.

So, that was what it all meant…

“You’ve disturbed the spell, Guerryn,” she complained, putting on her white robes which hung loose from under her scapula, before turning to face the emprix deva.

He bowed down to her. “Forgive me, Eleste.” She sighed and beckoned him to approach her. “She has awakened,” Guerryn informed when he was by the still crystal basin.

“I know.” She nodded. “I felt it.”

As soon as she finished the sentence, the water rose up again in eight spirals, forming a circle. The deva’s blue eyes widened when the eight spirals united in a star. “An eight-point star?” he asked.

“No.” With a movement of her pale hands, the middle of the flat star seemed to inflate, creating two edges: one up and one down. “Ten points, Guerryn. North,” the star vanished and a snowy landscape surged instead of it, “South,” suddenly, the snow melted into the dry sand of a desert, “East,” trees sprouted out of the barren ground, creating a lush jungle in its stead, “and West.” Sea… there was only a peaceful, quiet sea now. “Join them with the sub coordinates,” the landscape changed again, four times, at a blinding speed before settling into the star again, “and with the Positive and the Negative.” The star was split into two, one part pulled down, into what seemed to be the Lower Planes, and the other the Upper.

He gagged before asking, “What does it mean?”

She closed her transparent eyes. “I’ve been trying to make a meaning of it ever since your granddaughter arrived, Guerryn,” her voice was a weak whisper, unlike its usual strong, commanding echo. “I, for once, was lost in it for three months… Until today.”

He placed a hand on her naked shoulder. “And what did you find out?” he questioned, a thin shiver running up his spine as he waited for the answer. When it finally came, the shiver found its way around his whole body, grasping his heart and gnawing at his nerves. When she covered his hand with her own translucent one, her eyes opened and tears fell. “I’m sorry, Guerryn,” she murmured, bowing down her head and giving his hand a light squeeze before walking out of the room with glass walls and floor.

Guerryn took another look at the ten point star; he was a person of action and not one for interpreting the Water, like Eleste was, so what she’d just shown him confused him… and the fact that it’d taken _her_ , the Savras Oracle, three months to understand it wasn’t too comforting either.

 Someone entered the room and approached him from behind. “Eleste is quite upset,” the man said. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” the emprix deva firmly stated. “She got upset after she showed me _this_.” He extended a strong hand to point to the ten-point star shaped in the middle of the crystal basin.

The man’s green eyes widened. “So I guess she finally understood what that meant,” he walked forward to stand by Guerryn’s side, closer to the basin, “and it probably wasn’t very good.”

Guerryn shrugged. “She didn’t explain; she just showed it and apologized.” He then asked the other deva what he was doing there.

“I came looking for you,” the green eyed man explained. “Phethys told me you were here.” His mouth opened in a yawn and he extended his arms. “And here I was thinking Eleste’d finally realized the past had come back to haunt her…”

The emprix deva’s bright red eyebrows frowned, and he was quick to change the way the conversation was heading into.  “What do you need me for, Senim?”

Senim’s limbs quickly fell to his side and his thin lips broke into a smile. “Your granddaughter is finally awake,” his eyes rolled in their sockets, his tone becoming somewhat impatient, “again. And this time, she says she’s not tired.”

“Is there resentment in your tone, Senim?” Guerryn criticized, his frown becoming deeper, more accentuated.

Senim pointed to himself with both hands, faking surprise and astonishment. “Who, me? Guerryn, I’m a _deva_. We don’t resent other people, especially when they’re _heroes_. Well… except when we fall, but I assure you I’m nowhere near that point.”

The other deva snorted. “No, your humor is just plain bad. What is it about Firanis?”

“There’s a whole welcoming committee in her room, that’s what.” Senim then examined his nails, inattentive. “And things are kind of awkward since everyone’s trying not to mention the most blatant new revelation which is her overgrown stomach. Anyway,” Senim sighed sharply, “she asked for you, and since I was tired of hearing those clerics gloating on and on about being able to save both her and the child – who, from what I’ve picked up, seemed to be the seed of a very, shall we say, unaccepted relationship—”

“Senim, enough!” Guerryn commanded; Lathander be blessed, Senim had always managed to drive the most patient men to madness and he, while good, was a little bit short on the tolerance side, hated when the other man began rambling about things which were absolutely unnecessary to whatever he’d been tasked to do and… well, to shorten things up a bit, a few moments with Senim and you really began appreciating loneliness for what it really was: peaceful.

“Fine, fine.” He held up his hands in defeat. “You should go see her now and calm things up a bit.”

After hearing that, Guerryn was surprised and doubted that it was no more than an exaggeration from the part of the younger deva; the shock and uncertainty, however, faded as soon as he approached the room Firanis was in and was greeted by what seemed to be a very lit, fiery argument.

“Blunt!” a high pitched female voice shouted. “You are like clumsy a thief who tries to rob a house while stepping on every trap, Grobnar!”

“But Neeshka, you think Firanis hasn’t noticed?” came the reply in an equally high tone, but this time, it was a male. “And she didn’t get offended! Did you Firanis?”

“She’s still half asleep, that’s why she didn’t get offended!” the same female as before said… he believed it was the tiefling girl, who’d been constantly complaining of an itch. “I mean, that’s not—”

Guerryn slowly opened the door, causing the tiefling’s sharp tongue to cease its movements as her mouth snapped itself shut.

“’Bout time she shut up,” the dwarf blurted out, a clear expression of relief on his features.

His granddaughter let out something which had to be an attempt at a laugh, but came more close to a hoarse cough in which she choked. “Come on, Khelgar! It was not that bad!”

It was interesting that, in those three months she’d been lying on that bed, Guerryn had never really paid attention to his granddaughter’s features – possibly because he’d been too busy trying to bring her back. But now that she was fully awake and – Lathander be blessed – apparently happy, he noticed that her copper colored hair and white skin made him think of the sun being born in a hazy clouded sky. But the rounded face which narrowed slightly where the lower jaw began and went all the way to her chin, the small mouth which was neither full nor thin and the small round nose and the color of her eyes were so much like her father’s that the deva had to suppress a grimace due to the sharp needle which had stung him.

Firanis directed her face to him, nodding. “Good evening. I’m sorry if they got carried away and disturbed you.”

Guerryn was glad to be able to say her alto-ranged voice held the soft edge her mother’s had, back when he’d met the sun elf; the same could be said about the shape of her eyes, which resembled big almonds, the long, curved eyelashes and the rusty, slightly curved eyebrows. Not to mention that someone with so many companions who worried about her day and night obviously possessed a personality which was _certainly_ not like his son’s.

And that was relieving.

Guerryn blinked when someone made a grunt-like sound, realizing he’d been rudely staring at the aasimar for a long while now. He wetted his lips with his tongue before saying, “No, they did not. I came to see how you were.”

A noticeable wave of uneasiness was spread on Firanis’s features, which had been somewhat content up to that moment; she stammered a few times on the word “I” before a coherent, full-fledged sentence was formed. “I am all right now.” Her eyes moved to her overgrown stomach in an almost tender manner. “Just a bit…” color rose up to her cheeks until they were of a red so deep that it made her copper head look bland, “hungry?” she smiled up to him in embarrassment.

“Of course. I will take care of that.” Guerryn said and bowed before leaving. After the door was closed shut, there was silence for moments, until Firanis sighed loudly, the blush still lingering on her skin.

“After all this time I’ve been wondering about my family, I finally travel up to the Seven Heavens only to find that my grandfather looks younger than me,” she noted in one of the most frank, blatant sentences she’d ever said in all her twenty two years of life. 

Ammon Jerro raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re an aasimar. What did you expect?”

“I don’t know.” Firanis shrugged. “Maybe that he was possibly dead? It’d be a great deal less disconcerting than this, that’s for sure.” She let her back fall down to lean against the wall and began fiddling with the bed sheets. “So… three months.”

Someone said a “Yes.” She thought it’d been Zhjaeve, but she was not completely sure, because after she’d woken up for the second time, her ears had felt somewhat sore and her senses slightly numbed. And her limbs were… strained. Yes, strained and oddly fragile, as if they’d b break at the lightest movement; but still, she felt them, and that was a step ahead of the cruel numbness she’d been under for _three_ months.

The most shocking thing she’d found out after she’d woken up, however, was that the Eldritch Power she could usually call upon was far away. Not gone, not muted, not extinguished, but the ever running, endless fountain she’d felt inside her was only a resonance of what it’d been, a single screeching whisper compared to the strong tuned chorus she’d listened to; waves forming, dancing on a beach miles away from her, all because her _soul_ , the source, the catalyst, the receptacle of her power had been shut out of the living world for three months. _Three months_.  

A smile crept up on her face. That had been a while… And none of her friends had left. It was so…excruciatingly good to know that she felt a strange warmness spreading inside her, replacing the sensation of weakness and failure. 

“It was… hard to see you in that state for so long, Firanis,” Elanee interrupted her line of thought, “There was a time – I believe it was a month after we arrived here – that the devas thought you were never coming back, because you were—” Elanee bit down her lower lip, causing Firanis’s heart to quiver with guilt; it was her fault that everyone was so nervous, so on edge, so… regretful, that the aasimar could not look at any of them directly in the eye, something she’d been so keen in doing before the final battle with the King of Shadows.

“Far away,” Zhjaeve finally completed the hung sentence. “And they did not _know_ where that place was.”

Although her words had been pronounced in a statement, there was a hint of a question in it as well, mingled between the Githzerai’s usually neutral, monotone tone.

“I do not know either,” Firanis said while shaking her head. “But I heard all of you and my father and—” she gulped down dryly; why was she finding it to be so hard to talk to them? They were her friends – her _proven_ friends – so why couldn’t she tell them everything about the blizzard? Why couldn’t she tell them about the cuts, the blood, the backstab which had made her bleed and fall onto the cold snow and still remained etched upon her soul, refusing to close and scar…

 _It’s because it involves him_ , a quiet little voice whispered in her mind, _and it is about something you were – and still are – reluctant to share with them._

So why couldn’t she tell them she couldn’t use her Eldritch magic? Why couldn’t she tell them how _weakened_ she really was – a weakness that transcended the flesh and went to the very core of her being? Why couldn’t she tell them she needed to rely on them once more because she couldn’t defend herself now that she was pregnant and her powers unreachable? Why, when they’d been the ones who’d _really_ made her come back?

And how could she be so selfish in a moment such as this?

Firanis blinked, realizing everyone was staring at her, urging her to go on. “Anyway,” she tried to mask her previous hesitation with a semi-chirpy tone and a clap of her hands – whose fingers seemed to crack upon colliding, “you all called out to me… You did so with such strength that it reached me there. And for that, I’m grateful.” In that last sentence, there had been nothing about her tone which was fake or forced; her smile, however true and sparkling, was strung with an edge of shame, because she wasn’t being entirely honest with the ones who’d really saved her.

 _You really are a selfish fool,_ Firanis chided herself before Khelgar’s hammering voice brought her back to reality with a “What?”

Firanis took a thin finger to her chin. “You know… I heard you calling for me, and I felt that you all _believed_ I’d return. And it was you determination, your… sad, yet doubt-free words that made me _want_ to come back again.” She looked a Zhjaeve, but avoided her dull golden gaze. “Because belief can shape blades, hearts and minds; it can make cities fall and then rise again; it can make the sun break its way through the most closed, stubborn clouds; it can make thoughts and voices travel through great distances and it can make someone who thinks to be lost in a blizzard _want_ to find her way home again.”

Zhjaeve nodded, closing her eyes for a brief moment. “I always _knew_ you’d understand that.”

Sand sniffed sharply and licked his lips. “Endearing. But what I’m really curious about is _where_ you were, as the devas claimed that part of you was not there.”

The aasimar shrugged. “I really don’t know. I was searching for a way out, until someone managed to reached me there, not only with a voice, but in body as well, a,” she frowned before continuing, still unsure to call her woman or child or girl; in the end, she decided not to call her anything, “I don’t know what she really was, to tell the truth. She was a child at first, but when she approached me, she changed into a young woman. Not only that, she seemed to have something demonic about her, although the traces of her face were clearly elven.”

“You don’t know who she was?” Sand asked with raised eyebrows.

“I was... sort of lost back then, but now that I think of it, her voice _is_ familiar; I cannot say the same about her appearance, however.” Firanis explained, intertwining her hands and making the thumbs graze each other. “The deep red hair, the overly pale skin, the light blue eyes shaped like… well, they were wide and big, but the corners were turned down, as if someone had melted them and twisted them down, are utterly unfamiliar. But her peculiar voice and way of speaking… I don’t think I could forget those.” She tilted her head up, smiling. “It was as if the world moved with her, chanting around her body and whispering with her voice.  And she called me,” she squinted at her hands for a while, “ _Lady_. Yes, _Lady_ , and another name which I can’t recall now.”

“A name?” Zhjaeve asked.

The aasimar nodded. “Yes; and I don’t know why, but it seemed to have some sort of power over me, because she made me wake up. It’s strange, because…” her eyes trailed away to the ajar window of the room. “Back there, the name made sense; now, every time I try remembering it, it’s just a hiss of a snake that comes to mind.”

“A true name,” Jerro’s deep, hoarse voice declared.

Zhjaeve assented with her head. “Or part of,” the Githzerai added. “I doubt that whoever the girl was, she used Firanis’s true name to force her into making a decision. But someone who _knows_ true names like that,” her voice weakened such a sibilant whisper that Firanis wondered if Zhjaeve was making an effort to talk, “is powerful, rare and dangerous.”

“But she helped me, didn’t she?” Firanis stirred on the bed. “And there was no… evil on her eyes or whatsoever. She even seemed to be… pained with all the knowledge.”

“Knowledge such as that surely bears a high price.” Sand breathed out. “And speaking of knowledge, the devas have such a vast, rich library up here and they’re so selfless that they don’t mind sharing a… _generous_ tiny portion of it with me.” Sarcasm had been evident on his last sentence and the moon elf was unmistakably annoyed. “I will try to find who the girl is using one of the new scrying spells I’ve been practicing.”

“Yes, that would be for the best.” Firanis stifled a yawn and stretched her arms to the sides. She wanted to get up and walk, but as everyone had been so keen on warning her, she could not until she was strong enough, lest her legs would crumble under her weight.

“Anyway, did she tell you why you were there?” Neeshka briskly questioned. It took Firanis a while to nod affirmatively, a finger on her chin.

“She claimed it was a refuge for the soul…” the aasimar explained. “I think that, as my blood was tied here, my soul was somewhere tied to that place… And she said she could reach me there because it was a place of madness and fury.” She noticed the quick frown of Ammon Jerro’s brow and asked him what it was; the way his eyes roughly met hers unsettled her so much that she shivered; but that feeling was nothing compared to the one which replaced it after he answered -  one that made all the cold come back and envelop her in its misty claws.

The answer had been “Fury’s Heart”. And it rendered her to a complete state of astonishment and prevented her speaking anything that was less than a sequence of a couple of words.

And the worst of all, it made her wish she’d been killed.

No one really tried to push the conversation any further. Neeshka waved a bright goodbye, Sand nodded on his way out, Zhjaeve brushed a hand on hers, making her skin tingle briefly. Khelgar patted her on the back again, and Firanis felt her column nearly breaking away at the dwarf’s strong touch; Elanee brushed her shoulder-length fringe behind the slightly pointed ear and wished her a goodnight; Grobnar smiled before contently saying a “see you tomorrow”; Ammon sighed at the gnome, but gave her an almost understand look before crossing the threshold.

And Casavir… Casavir said the same thing he’d been saying all evening: nothing. His thin lips had been tightly pursed, his blue eyes boring into her figure with a sadness so great that it stung the aasimar; even his steps were heavier than usual. Firanis wanted to apologize to him for… well, for a lot of things, really, but mainly because _maybe_ an apology from her would make him feel better; she could not bear to see him like _that_ , so cheerless and wounded because of her… Firanis wanted to explain _everything_ to him, why she’d never told him about Bishop, or about the curse, but her wounds, too, had been recently opened, and she could not… talk about them for now.

The egoism slashed at her like a knife, and she clutched at her stomach. She’d been glad for the child… why couldn’t she be glad to share her feelings and weaknesses with her friends, especially when she did not really regret having felt them?

The Paladin closed the door behind him, and the cold she’d been feeling before was slowly returning to her skin.

It confused her, but… she somehow knew that they knew she was hiding something now, like she’d hid the real face of her and Bishop’s _relationship_ , if you could call it that. And still, they were here, waiting for her by her side, lending her their strength only by being there, trying not to hurt with anything, not even with badly chosen words or misinterpreted sentences.

And so, she realized the cold on her soul had been somewhat reduced, and Firanis knew her child wasn’t the only one… there were still so many reasons for her to keep on, that the aasimar scolded herself for wanting to give up before. In hindsight, she could see that those thoughts had been seeded by weakness, despair and foolishness.

She smiled derisively. Indeed, she had been a fool. And she’d keep being one, at least until she could find the right way to tell her friends of _everything_. Because, when they weren’t mowing at her patience by bickering at each other, they deserved nothing less than that.

 

 

She danced.

It wasn’t that she _liked_ dancing; in fact, she avoided it whenever she could, as it only reminded her of her home in Zakhara. But alas she’d been left in a position in which refusing to dance would send her back to the sewers of Baldur’s Gate and _that_ was something she feared even more than the memories of her home.

Her gaze crossed with the one of a man’s, and she held it, eyes half-closed sensuously; she pulled her outer skirt out and made a circle above her head, the violet veil following like a wisp of smoke; she turned her back to the crowd and her lips moved in a silent curse to Jisan, but she knew it’d do no good. She’d been in this accursed Faerûn for most of her life, for so long that the Zakharan gods probably didn’t even see her as one of their people anymore.

She let the violet veil fall and reached for the indigo one, accompanying the removal with a thrust of her hips. She found the same man’s gaze again when she turned… she _knew_ that man from somewhere, or at least the description. After a few more tantalizing moves of her body, it was time for the blue veil to be removed from around her waist, as well as the green, leaving her only with three skirts: one yellow, one orange and the final red one, as well as the bra of the same color, with coins sewed to the hems.

But the man kept scrutinizing her every move, and the more she examined him, the more she thought she knew him. But from where?

Another veil fell, slowly gliding down to finally rest on the floor; soon, the same happened to the orange one, and she started dancing with the red. The coins on her bra chinked when she thrust her chest forward and fluidly pivoted around, the now fully uncovered black skirt billowing behind her as if it were part of her shadow.

She finished the dance with a hip driven upwards and the red veil scraping her naked lower back; people applauded her with stark emphasis, and there was an air of satisfaction surrounding her Mistress’s full, round frame.

Her angular thin eyebrows furrowed in anger; she wished she could wipe that look from the woman’s face, she wished she could whip her the way she’d been whipped, she wished she could steal the woman’s life like someone had stolen hers long ago and have every single misfortune she’d been under fall on the circle covered with blatantly distasteful, horrid make-up she called _face_ …

She let those thoughts of revenge subside for now and focused on the now of congratulating faces, appreciative words and generous offers. Gods, if she only could make them all go away and let her at least _try_ to make a living without them!

It wasn’t that she was the kind of person who wished for ill wills to come crashing down into someone else. No, she was a person who, upon deciding if she would or would not be better off without the said person, would simply end their miserable existence in the most painful, excruciating way she could if the case was the first option; if it was the latter, well, people usually said she made a snake look loyal and friendly and that a hag would have a better temper than she did.

And right now, she wanted to make justice to those traits more than ever… but a cold, raspy voice called her, its sharp edges seemingly cutting its way through her ears into her senses. She turned, and found the same man whose gaze she’d met several times during the dance.

“Yes?” she asked, her voice like deep echoes of impatient drops of water falling down onto crystal caves.

The man leant closer to her, close enough so that she could smell the rough wine of his breath and the smoke which scented his clothes. “Aniel my dear… I have work for you.”

Her dark olive eyes widened… how could she _not_ have recognized him before?

“It’s not surprising. After all, I’ve never really shown my face to you, have I?”

Aniel shook her head, regaining the cool attitude she’d been showing before. “What kind of work, Belken?” she’d raised an eyebrow at him, dubious.

Belken smirked in an almost childish manner. “Both of them.” Her face froze and her already pale skin paled to a ghostly shade of white. “You will be heavily rewarded Aniel, and I will even provide you with the help of one of my best agents.”

“I work alone,” she stated, crossing her arms over her full chest.

“This time, Aniel, you won’t.” After he’d finished pronouncing the last word, Aniel noticed the shadows behind him were _moving_! No, not shadows… but a man, clad in a black outfit which cast him into darkness so that none of his features could be seen… Until he looked up, and those eyes bore into hers, so deeply and unnervingly that she couldn’t even _breathe_! They were so potent, so untamed, so _free_ , like waters of a green hue which fell down into a river and flowed through its course without any restraints or boundaries.

Belken chuckled. “Now, Aniel, where can we discuss the details?”

She struggled to free herself from the watery green gaze, but it still held her fast and strong, begging her to lose herself in it for another second, another minute, another hour… for as long as she could. “Entice me first,” she challengingly demanded.

“You’ll be freed of this life, Aniel.”

She looked almost shocked with the offer, but the corners of her full lips quirked up in pleasure. “Tomorrow, my room at the Blushing Mermaid.”

“See you there.” He turned and began walking away, giving some other nobleman a chance of approaching her; the other man fully retreated into the shadows and Aniel felt the strength of the gaze fade as well as something within quivering with a strange nervousness. “Your dancing was… exquisite, milady,” was the first sentence the Caucasian male said upon stopping in front of her.

She turned her face to his, shrugging off the watery green gaze, the feelings and the confusion which had risen within her - as someone like her could not afford any of those -, she tried to listen to the newly arrived human male in front of her, but his conversation tired her, with its clichéd manner and flamboyant praises.

Indeed, freedom of this life would have been the best thing one could’ve offered her.


	3. Nocturne: Remembrance, Walk, Nightfall

**_Nocturne_ **

_“Do you want to lose that piece?” she asked almost mockingly, brushing a lock of her long fringe behind her ear._

_He merely gave her an apprehensive look as he moved the piece in question; frankly, she liked when he looked so stern and serious. It made him look almost appealingly dangerous._

_A loud, maniac cackle escaped her lips as she reached out for one of her own black pieces and tried to move it to throw the White Bishop of the tray. But… she couldn’t! Her black Knight wouldn’t settle on the square where the delicate neither-child-nor-woman stood!_

_Then, it was his time to laugh and she finally understood that he was the only one who knew all the rules of this particular match._

**Three**

_Remembrance_

_Walk_

_Nightfall_

 

It had been nearly three weeks since Firanis had woken up, but only now the clerics had allowed her to try walking out of the bed, because it no longer was likely for her to fall straight on her face if she tried to take a step forward. She’d never been alone for as long as she’d been awake, though, because there had always been someone with her in the room, even if they were reading a particularly interesting book, cursing at the weak Heavenly ale, telling how they’d somehow stumbled into a richly decorated room, asking endless questions or only blankly staring off into space.

And in those three weeks, Firanis started to feel more like herself than like the surly, lethargic, morose person she’d been behaving like ever since she’d come back from the storm. _Sure_ , she still hadn’t told her friends everything – but she felt that the time wasn’t right and the proper words wouldn’t just come off either; it wasn’t that they insisted on asking her uncomfortable things, since Elanee had claimed pregnant women tended to be very emotional in the stage she was in (except maybe for Ammon Jerro, who insisted in doing the opposite and Grobnar, who insisted in innocently forgetting the things one was and was _not_ supposed to ask _anyone_ ).

Still, being confined to the same room for so long had imbued every single part of her with a desire to get out, to be free of the restraining walls and finally allow the pure, free air of the outside to caress her skin with its touch of freedom.

Firanis didn’t hate closed buildings nor rooms; she wasn’t even a person who could set up camp in the wilderness all by herself. What she really hated – and what those past three weeks had evoked – was the sensation of limits, of cages and of inactivity.

She breathed in and looked up at the Cleric. “Can I walk around the city for a bit?”

The Cleric’s – whose name was Phethys’s - features grew tampered. “Why?”

Firanis felt her blood rising to her cheeks; she couldn’t possibly tell the deva spending too much time without being able to do anything scared her to the bones, as the Celestial would most certainly think she thought them to be inhospitable hosts; so she said she’s like to see her surroundings and catch a bit of fresh air.

“Your body hasn’t regained its full strength yet,” Phethys said, “but I think that as long as you keep yourself from doing great efforts, you should be fine. I believe that a walk to the lake wouldn’t hurt you; your muscles need to exercise a bit as well, and it’ll probably help with your sleep trouble.”

Firanis bowed down her head, muttering a “Thanks” to the Cleric and, after asking her for directions, she left the room.

She’d been told by her grandfather and later, by her friends, that she’d somewhat ripped up a pathway through the planes to a place her blood was connected to; that place had been Empyrea, Guerryn’s home plane, situated in the fifth layer of Mount Celestia. Firanis had vaguely read about the Upper Planes in books she’d found at the Crossroad Keep Library, and they’d always made her think of broad, translucent landscapes of clouds and eternal soft sunbeams.

But it wasn’t like that; at least not here.

Empyrea stretched itself far and wide around her, with the ground of pure white marble stones and the sky of a comforting grey hue; the buildings were disposed in a circle, seeming like drops of pearl shaded watercolors which had fallen into the white and grey canvas. In the middle, a few feet away from her, stood a round, large fountain; Firanis approached it, and saw that the water was so clear, so transparent, that it made the crystal bulwark around it seem hazy and dirty. And beyond the city buildings, with luminescent clouds hovering around it, stood a snow-covered mountain, slightly reflecting the faint sunlight which radiated from somewhere above it.

Firanis smiled; it wasn’t on some blurred notion that Empyrea was called “The City of Tempered Souls”; every construction, every scent, every inch of it glowed with tranquility, balance and an unusual equity that made her troubled heart seem somewhat at ease just by contemplating it.

“ _The Lake is at the edge of the mountain; you’ll see the mountain from this house, just go into that direction; there’s nothing to be mistaken about._ ” Were the directions Phethys had given her; Firanis followed them, through broad, large avenues of malt houses and small gardens of daisies and white lilies, finally reaching it by the time the sun had fully emerged from the horizon.

While Empyrea was serene, the mountain lake was strikingly beautiful. The trees around it, the clouds and the mountain peaks were all reflected in its waters, as if it were a giant mirror with a slightly rippling surface; and the air around it, which was moist, yet absolutely pleasant, made her lungs feel lighter at each breath.

This was indeed a nice change of scenario from the white, small room she’d been in for so long.

Firanis inhaled deeply, but the air quickly fled through her mouth when she heard the steps of someone approaching her, and then stopping so suddenly that it would seem the person was hesitant to approach her. The aasimar spun round and found Casavir, a few feet away from her, clothed in light brown trousers and shirt; his expression and stance, however, were as heavy as the armor he used to wear, with the corners of the lips pulled down and the eyes of a dull light grey shade instead of the usual vivid light blue; his shoulders, too, were slumped down, not held up in that straight manner she remembered.

 _Just how heavy is your burden, Casavir? And how much of its weight was added by me?_ Was what a big part of her wanted to ask the Paladin, but his diffidence ate away at her heard and Firanis couldn’t bring herself to ask him that; so she croaked him, “Hello Casavir.”

Lines, many lines of dilemmas somehow were made apparent on his face. He frowned, he inhaled, he closed his eyes and finally, in a deep tone that resembled a rocks falling into an abyss, said, “Good morning, Firanis.”

She bit down her lip and watched him walk forward, to join her by the edge of the lake, each one of his soundless steps echoing on her mind in repetitive, resonant booms. “You’re up early.” Firanis managed a smile, even though it was filled with guilt. “Do you come here everyday?”

A short, curt nod; Firanis had to struggle to keep her face neutral at the Paladin’s distant behavior, like she had when they’d first met; only that by then, she tried to keep herself calm so that she wouldn’t lash out at him and beg him to break off the cold attitude and cordial speech because she was his friend and now… now she tried not to start crying because she knew she was the one who’d made those manners surface again.

“We haven’t talked much since I woke up.” She innocently tried to crack the surface barricades of his thoughts by making idle conversation again. “How have you been?”

Casavir glanced sideways at Firanis’s round face, at her cheeks dimpled by a soft, persuasive smile, and at her attentive grey blue eyes which seemed to be seeking to read his reactions towards her simple questions. If she knew how much it had pained him to watch her walk on the brink of death for so long; if she knew how much it hurt to look at her _now_ while her hands absently traveled to her belly, as if to remind him of the things she’d hidden from him when he’d trusted her with not only his life, but with his heart as well. He even came to feed the foolish hope that someday, she’d give hers to him in return.

But she hadn’t. She’d given them to another; and not just any other, but someone who made sure everyone knew he hated the world, that he did not care for anyone but himself and, on top of it all, had betrayed her when she needed him the most.

He hadn’t, not even when even the slightest glimpse of her meant the bitterest pain he’d ever experienced. Casavir could not even begin to understand the injustice of it all… How could _his_ God, the even-handed give _Bishop_ the person Casavir loved more than his own life? The person he wanted for _himself_?

Perhaps it was because he’d been too selfish in that regard that she’d been taken from him; perhaps it had been because he took too long to admit the depth of his feelings towards her. Maybe it had been because he’d been _lying_ to himself for so long that Tyr had decided to punish him so violently.

Lies… to some people, lies could seem to be such light, simple and harmless things… But to Casavir, they were like little cuts, etching themselves on his conscience every time he was forced to recur to using them; and just like everything, when you start abusing, those superficial cuts begin getting deeper and deeper until your conscience is nearly dying due to all the mistreats you’ve been giving it. And his… his was evanescing into blood, with all the little lies piling up and up for all the times he said he did not care, for all the times he covered up the truth with deceit… Like when he’d told her he came here every morning when he’d only followed her today here to make sure she’d be all right.

Yes… maybe it had been because of that that he’d been so crudely punished… Because, as he’d come to know, Justice could be blind, but it most certainly wasn’t kind. Not on anyone; not on _him_.

But it made him speculate… that if his conscience was nearing death, how would hers be faring?

“Casavir?” Firanis ever soft voice brought him back to the edge of the cold mountain lake, her eyes very widely open. _Right_ , she was expecting an answer…

“I’ve been fine,” Casavir lied. “And you, milady? Are you feeling better?”

“My back hurts. And I’m itchy and I have trouble sleeping and sometimes I bleed from my nose. Other than that, I’m fine.” Firanis intertwined her fingers and stretched her arms before cradling the back of her head with her hands, but she winced in pain and settled her arms by her sides. “Anyway… I can’t really complain as I’m finally out of that room.”

It amazed Casavir that she could be so nonchalant and lighthearted about everything! She’d nearly been killed with that little display of eldritch magic, she’d been in a somewhat comatose estate for three months while screaming and crying half the time and, on top of it all, the child she was carrying would most likely have no father!

There had been a time in which he would voice all those concerns to her… but not now. Casavir just… could not trust the aasimar with his points of view as easily as he had before, and all he managed to give her as a reply was an “I see.”

Firanis breathed in and let out a half-chuckle.

“What is it?” the Paladin asked before he could stop himself.

She rubbed her nose with her index finger, the newly risen blush making her cheeks look like ripe plums. “It’s exactly like back then,” she admitted. “Like when we first returned to the Flagon.” She tilted her head up and slightly sideways, her eyes reflecting the strange nostalgia his heart had begun to feel. “There was so much uneasiness between us, Casavir, that I wasn’t sure of what to do with you. But then you slowly started to loosen up… it was not much, but you didn’t shiver when you talked to me anymore, and your voice wasn’t as distant and as cold as it was when we met in Old Owl Well.”

That seemed to have been years ago, but it was like a figment of a marking childhood memory, one of those you never forget… but it had only been ten months since then. It had been winter, and he’d left Neverwinter because of… Ophala. He began fighting against the Orcs and, by the time spring hit, the situation was beginning to look grim for both them and the Greycloaks; by the time it was ending, Firanis showed up.

When Casavir had first laid eyes on her, fighting a whole bunch of orcs with such little combat affinity, he’d thought of her as someone absolutely clumsy and desperate; but when she rose from the ground and looked at him, her skin translucent with a soft light, her eyes serene and thoughtful, her voice as persuasive a fireplace during winter, the inept, blunt image had been forever swept away from his mind. After that, she’d always reminded him of warm spring evenings and of the trees that bloomed at the Temple of Tyr at Neverwinter. Because Firanis had come at a time when he thought it all had been washed away by the everlasting winter rain and had sown seeds of hope, understanding and peace.

So, why didn’t she give him that feel anymore? Why couldn’t he talk to her and long for her understanding advices and soothing words?

 _Because then we were friends._ Casavir explained to himself, but that justification only gave rise to another question: _But if so,_ _what are we now?_

“I’m sorry.”

Firanis “humpfed” with the back of her throat. “For what?”

 _Good question_ , he agreed; he’d been very stupid to neglect her inane ability to detect the emptiness in one’s tone of voice… And when he’d spoken before, there had been no emotions to his apology; it felt empty, merely something formal his vows obliged him to do.

Casavir stared at her for a while, but their gazes never met, for hers was fixated on the mountains and the lake in front of her; but before he left, he whispered, “For being absent in these three weeks.”

There was a trace of amusement playing on her face when he began walking away and Casavir thought that, as if answering to the question he’d never laid down to her, she murmured, “ _Now we’re fools, Casavir._ ”

 

 

 

“ _Pain is the World; the World is Pain,_ ” she recited in a whisper as the whip went lashing down her back, cutting open the smooth dark grey skin. “ _Endure it all; bring it back to those who offend._ ” She threw the whip back again, reveling in the burning sensation it brought her. _“Abstain from pain when one waits for it – instead,_ heal _them so they’ll be deceived and as to increase the Mystery which is Loviatar’s Mercy._ ”

She heard someone enter the room, but she did not dare to interrupt the ritual; whoever it was, they’d have to wait. She concentrated harder on her prayer and flagellated herself again while murmuring, “ _Be enchanting, and give pain and scorn to those who enjoy it, as well as to those who truly deserve or would be hurt the most by it._ ”

“Pain, come here,” a man’s voice ordered; oddly enough, she liked that voice… it had a rough edge about it, and yet it was deep and melodic; but alas, she couldn’t stop her prayers now… Loviatar wouldn’t forgive her…

“ _Praise the fire, the cold and the lash,_ ” at the mention of the last word, she whipped her back again, feeling thin rivers of blood trickling down the scapulas and the muscles of her back; the feel of the hot blood against the cold skin made her coo and sigh in delight, _“for they never fail the devout. Spread the Maiden of Pain’s teaching whenever punishment is justly meted out._ ”

“Vasjra, stop the sadism and help me!” the man said again. Her angular eyebrows fell into a frown and she _almost_ ruptured the prayer.

Instead of stopping, she began chanting louder, her movements more intense, as if to remind herself of her duty to the Maiden. “ _Pain tests all, but strengthens the spirit and gives true pleasure to the steady and the true. No punishment is real if the punisher knows no discipline_.” A hand grabbed hers, but she shook its grasp off, screaming, “ _Wherever is a whip, there is Loviatar. Fear her – and yet yearn for her._ ” With that, she took the whip down one last time, in a motion which had been more violent than any other and made more blood gush forward, down into her back and into where her black robes met the dark line between her buttocks.

She rose from her kneeling position on the floor and pushed her arms back, her sheer flexibility allowing the scapulas to touch. One of her hands found the hole of her robes and she pulled it through her head before she spun round, a fierce look of contempt written on her delicate, sharp face. “The next time you interrupt my prayers, Rekat, I’m making an example out o—” she stopped and her expression changed from annoyance to surprise when she noticed the unconscious woman the thief was carrying in his arms. “What do we have here?”

“What does it look like, Vasjra? A wounded woman!” he spat so furiously that the priestess had to break into a high-pitched, sadistic laughter before approaching him and examining the woman.

“Such temperament on your voice, Rekat,” she droned, brushing back a lock of the woman’s slightly wavy hair, “I wonder if it has anything to do with the fact that she is so… pretty. Excruciatingly so, if I dare say.”

His lips pursed; his tone hardened to the level of adamantine. “She needs healing, _priest_.”

So much disdain in that word, yet such determination in the whole sentence! Vasjra clapped her hands and ordered him to set her down at the feet of Loviatar’s statue; the priestess undid the clasps of the leather armor the woman worn, exposing the perfect, balanced curves of her breasts, waist and hips.

“Ugly gash. A sword?” the priestess asked.

“A poisoned one; she can barely hold it together.”

“Mmmm?” Vasjra’s lips quirked up, her hands palpating the wounded area just below the woman’s left breast; the skin around the wound was as white as dandelion clocks and as soft as silk. “And the ever prudent Rekat did not have an antidote with him?”

“No. And before you ask, do you think I’d have time to steal one before she died of invalidity?”

Oh, the bitterness on his voice was as charming as ice pressed against her skin in a hot summer afternoon. “I’ll treat her with all my care, but Rekat…” Vasjra’s voice became a seductive hiss, and she pressed her dark grey body against the thief’s. “You will owe me one.”

Rekat looked from Vasjra’s red eyes to Aniel’s limp body, to the uncovered smoothness of her skin and flawless physique, to the sweaty forehead and trembling eyelids… And he could only gulp before nodding, agreeing to owe one to who could only be one of the most twisted, perverted people who’d ever walked the face of Faerûn.

But very deep inside he was only wondering how much Aniel would be indebted to _him_.

 

 

 

Firanis yawned, watching the sun calmly rising up in the sky; she could say it was around two in the afternoon for both its position and complaining stomach, which had begun growling so loudly that she’d even been startled by it.

It had been such a calm morning… apart from Casavir, she’d been disturbed by no one else, and he’d already left some hours ago. The aasimar shook her head, remembering his faltering gaze, his heavy posture and his blunt words and asked herself if he’d heard what she’d said when he began walking away from her.

 _“I was innocent and you were wise; now we’re fools, Casavir_ ” had been it; and it had been the truth.

Casavir… he’d been hard to deal with. The Paladin was so intent on not bothering others that he’d forgotten that people naturally became anxious around him because they worried about where his selflessness might lead next; because they worried that someday the feelings he’d been bottling up inside all the time might burst into a multi-colored prismatic cloud of emotions; the hazards of getting him to talk to her like friends did had been numerous, but Firanis had overcome them, and little by little, she’d been enjoying their conversations and how just, benevolent and… _whole_ was the man who his behind the cold perpetual smile and cordial manners. In hindsight, she actually believed she had been starting to fall in love with him.

But unless you’ve already fallen so far that you can’t climb up anymore, you’ll get up and wait to be pushed into the abyss again. And Bishop showed up, brought her up by the part of her which was still clinging onto that edge and complicated everything.

When Casavir was the paragon of knighthood, Bishop was a perfect example of how self-loathing and disbelief in others could hurt one’s character. Casavir was reserved, quiet, respectful and the ranger was a really selfish bastard who voiced his emotions without caring if they were proper for the situation and absolutely rude with anyone who approached him. Where Casavir supported, Bishop mocked; where one denied, the other accepted. It had been difficult in the beginning, but Firanis had somehow managed to have them both working together without having to pick up sides all the time… and she reckoned it had been like that because they were so different and yet, there was something in common between them. Like snakes and eagles. Both predators, but while one used sharp, quick methods to seize its prey, the other preferred slow, painful and dirty ones.

Firanis snorted. Eagles were such magnificent animals; why had she chosen the snake instead?

A sigh escaped her pink lips; she should go back now… Phethys would want her to have lunch, and…

And as she turned to walk back into the city proper, she saw Neeshka, Elanee and Zhjaeve approaching her. The stern, musing look on her face vanished, being replaced by the softest, friendliest smile she could muster. Firanis bowed her head and greeted the three women as they came closer and closer.

“Kind of reminds you of Skymirror, right?” Elanee was the first one to speak when she reached her side, the druidess’s brown eyes on the mirrored lake in front of them.

Firanis nodded. “It does.”

Elanee breathed in. “Well, it’s very beautiful here, but I think that someday, I’d like to be back at the one place this lake reminds me of.”

The smile on Firanis’s lips flickered; Elanee’s voice, albeit casual, had wavered with something that seemed to mingle missing and solitude, making it evident that Elanee missed the mere… her home.

So why… were they still here? They could have left her alone… Firanis doubted the devas would have denied them a passage back to Neverwinter and she was truly unsure that she’d made good company in those three months she’d been unconscious. So why hadn’t they just left and given up on her? Why were they _all_ still here?

Elanee obviously wanted to go back to the material plane but the wood elf very rarely left her side, visiting her every day, helping her bathe and dress and forcing her to _eat_ , even when she wasn’t hungry. Zhjaeve was apparently out of place in Mertion, as it was too far out of the strict order and rules she lived by; as the Githzerai had once told her, “ _I shape boundaries out of chaos and can I tame my mind only when it’s in a deregulated environment. I’m too used to_ knowing _myself and the way I behave by doing that, Firanis and_ _Mertion is too controlled, too organized for me to do it properly here”._ Khelgar hated the ale and the lack of uncivilized taverns – and the devas had suspected that, due to his rowdy suggestions, he only wore clothes of a monk because he liked them and not because he belonged to an Order; well, at least all the co-fraternization with the celestials had calmed him down a bit.

She’d rarely seen Sand, though, mostly because, as he’d pointed out, he was too busy with expanding his knowledge while he could and _“Do you have any idea of the books they have here that we can’t find anywhere in Faerûn, not even in the Hosttower archives!?”_ seemed a reasonable enough explanation to his behavior, since it was _Sand_ she was talking about there. Casavir, that one had sat in her room in silence at least a couple of hours a day, and only when he had company; the first time they’d talked had only been today and, as she’d assessed earlier, it’d been awkward at the best.

Ammon Jerro didn’t seem to be enjoying Mertion either, and even though he didn’t exactly _complain_ about it; he just… said that in this part of the planes, his powers were slightly weaker – and that affirmation had brought an insignificant measure of comfort Firanis; if Ammon himself didn’t have his powers at their best here, then it wasn’t so abnormal that she was feeling the same thing as well.

Firanis had to suppress a giggle when she reminded herself of Grobnar, so awe-struck and marveled at the city, the landscapes and citizens that he’d been very inspired to write up a few tunes. Firanis hadn’t cared that they’d been as good as the sound of hundreds of mosquitoes buzzing at her ear because it showed that at least _one_ of her companions was glad to be so high up on the Planes.

“You know, actually deva clothing doesn’t look bad on you, Firanis.” Neeshka flippantly commented to break the momentary silence, examining the aasimar’s standing form. “Must be because you’re partially one; _I_ had to wash and re-wash my leather armor because the vestments I was offered just,” the tiefling giggled momentarily before proceeding, “didn’t look good on my skin.”

Okay, because Neeshka… Neeshka had been sort of fine, Firanis presumed. She nagged on and on about being allergic to the Upper Planes air, but _still_ , the whole beliefs its inhabitants had in other people’s goodness, innocence and repent, as well as their natural will to help others had given her some nice excuses to relieve them of things she _would put to more use_.

“White sticks out when you’re trying to hide in the shadows, heh?” Firanis teased with a wink.

Neeshka’s brown skin started to darken profusely and the tiefling blinked several times, much like children do when they’re caught doing something and still insist that the people who saw them are completely mistaken. It was a somewhat usual habit the tiefling had, and Firanis had always thought it was amusing, even if the situation in itself wasn’t.

Like when they’d found Tremmel in Neverwinter, wanting to sever Neeshka’s horns from her head and pierce her tail with them. Then, at the end, Neeshka had given her that childish look for the first time, and Firanis had been so amused by it that she’d never forgotten it… nor been oblivious to it whenever Neeshka began pulling off the deadpan face, as others appeared to be.

Elanee quietly intruded, “We’re here to get you back; the Priests said you’d been gone for the whole morning, and they wanted you to have a broad lunch so—”

“Elanee, I needed to get out of that room,” Firanis stated. “And they say I should be fine as long as I don’t overdo myself.”

“And that is?”

 “A walk to the lake and back?” Firanis replied with a very thin, very sheepish voice. “Oh, don’t give me that look, Elanee! It was not much!”

“And you’re standing as if you’ve got a bent spinal column,” it was Zhjaeve who was speaking now, walking slightly behind her.

“That’s because my back hurts.”

“Sheesh, angry retorts and stuck out tongues,” the tiefling mocked.

“Neeshka, the deva noticed you pick pocketing him yesterday when you entered my room,” Firanis uttered in a sing-song voice.

“He didn’t!”

“He did.” Elanee smirked. “He’s just walking this way.”

“He’s _not_!” Neeshka squealed before she turned back and, much like a cat, puffed up in annoyance. “Even you, Elanee?”

Elanee began laughing and, upon seeing Neeshka’s indignant face, so did the aasimar; but inside, she was truly lost… It wasn’t like Elanee to grab a loose end of a joke and pull it, nor to openly laugh like this; it was no that Elanee was evil – she was very much the contrary - but the druidess had always been so serene, so balanced, that seeing her detaching herself from such equity was somewhat comforting, but strange nonetheless.

When she’d been young… around five or so, she’d found a dull, brown caterpillar in one of the Swamp’s trees; it was so bland on her eyes, camouflaged in the tree’s trunk that she’d been amazed at how she’d been able to find it. Fortune had it, she passed by that tree when spring fist broke that year and remembered the caterpillar and she began looking for again; but there was no such thing… there was a chrysalis there and, right in front of her eyes, it began opening; when it fully broke, a butterfly emerged, its wings colored of a vivid orange, which slowly faded into a light, warm brown which ended at the butterfly’s thin body, which was… brown. Like the caterpillar’s had been. It had surprised her at first, but the butterfly with wings that seemed to be made of bark under a cool sunrise was once a caterpillar which had been so unnoticeable and plain a couple of months ago.

She’d been very, very young back then, but those events never left her… and when she grew older, she began to understand what they really meant: _nothing_ was eternal and _all_ things came across transformations through the course of their lives.

_Which makes me wonder how much everyone I once thought to know has changed._

The aasimar sighed. “My back hurts,” she complained.

“Then straighten it,” Zhjaeve firmly stated. “Your bones are still weak and most prone to deformations; must set you will into it, lest you’ll be walking around like that forever.” Neeshka opened her mouth to call out the Githzerai’s name, but Zhjaeve kept speaking in her oddly deep voice. “You’re only five months pregnant; it’s not that it’s the child that’s making it bend.”

“Zhjaeve…” Neeshka muttered.

“Yes?”

The tiefling sighed sharply, shrugging. “Nevermind.”

If Elanee reminded her of changed caterpillars, Neeshka was, and had always been to Firanis’s eyes, reminiscent of a cat: if she doesn’t know you, she scratches; if she _knows_ and _hates_ you, she jumps at your face and claws at it; if she likes you, however, she bites whoever tries to make a move on you, no matter if you know them or not… nor if they’re entirely right and straightforward when it comes to mentioning something the cat doesn’t want her friend to notice or a subject the cat doesn’t want to be mentioned; like bathing her.

“I know I’m pregnant, Neeshka,” Firanis said with a smile. “I can’t see what’s so bad about mentioning it.”

A curt silence followed, in which Neeshka, under Firanis’s light, patient gaze, came to blush and throw one of her characteristic giggles of embarrassment; Elanee just shook her head and Zhjaeve took a hand to her forehead while saying something in a language none of them understood. Firanis’s smile soon grew and she broke down laughing at Neeshka’s stutters and visible indignity. But deep inside, she was restless and preoccupied… Maybe the one who’d really changed had been no one else but her.

 

 

What had been the definition of solar he’d read and memorized? _The greatest of the angels, usually close attendants to a deity or champions of some cosmically beneficent task._

Well, he had defended a _cosmically beneficent task_ three months ago; he should be qualified to receive whatever help he needed from a solar, Planetar or deva; not that he complained about the latter ones, as those were kind enough to let him access the ground floors of the Library, but when it came to _solars_ … It’d indeed been too bad that whoever the author was had forgotten the “the Higher can also be hideously stubborn, uncooperative and strangely mean when they suspect of you, your intentions and of your past, about which they _very curiously_ know all” part of the description.

At least, it most certainly would have helped him in being prepared to deal with _this_ solar.

“You cannot use my crystal basin,” Eleste denied him with a ferocity which, according to Guerryn’s look, had to be uncharacteristic of her.

 _“Eleste is a very calm, concise solar,”_ the emprix deva had stated when Sand had come to ask him if he could find a proper scrying basin to try the spell on, as the ones he’d been using rendered everything useless, _“and she’s the Savras Oracle, she she’ll naturally have something of the sort she can lend you.”_

 _Indeed,_ Sand thought as he gave the solar a smile of bitter patience. “But my Lady Eleste, I am in need of it to perform a scrying spell in order to find out what truly happened to Firanis, because _apparently_ , someone knows her true name.”

“The Truenamer girl is unique, _Sand_ ,” Eleste’s clean voice replied him. “And you cannot know her. No one can.”

Sand frowned. “Or you don’t want them to. You know, I’m starting to think—”

“Mister Sand, please,” Guerryn tried to stop the moon elf from saying anything further.

“I’m starting to think _you_ don’t want to help Firanis or anyone of us out of here,” Sand continued nonetheless; it wasn’t like him to lose the hold of his temper, but _this_ one solar had been driving him on edge ever since they’d arrived this place and crossed paths with her. The Lower devas were fine people, and even the Higher ones such as Guerryn would lend him study material when he’d asked for it, albeit very reluctantly, but they’d _never_ denied anything… Well, except for the most prized spell books, but that he understood: he wouldn’t give his best books to a stranger either. But _this_ woman was denying him a basin! A _basin_! It’s fine that it was made of crystal and had a silver trim and looked expensive… but it was still a _basin_! And he wasn’t Neeshka, so he wasn’t going to steal it after the spell! He wasn’t—

“You cannot scry her. No one can scry her,” the solar added.

Sand laughed a high-pitched, mad laugh. “This is better than one of Grobnar’s new dramas!” he exclaimed between laughs. “The Oracle of the God of Visions saying someone cannot be scryed!” his face gained an instantaneous serious look after the last sentence. “Do you mock me, Lady Eleste? How can _you_ say such things when—”

“I’ve tried,” stated Eleste, her voice still the same clear, watery neutral resonance. “That is _why_ I know, Sand. In order to see someone, you need to know how to define them, whether through a name, or an image; that one Truenamer, she can’t.” the solar inhaled sharply, but not long enough to let Sand throw another angry retort at her; it was obvious that she, too, was detaching herself from her usual inner balance. “I _knew_ what she looked like and yet, I could not _see_ her because she _cannot_ be defined, because she does not belong anywhere.”

“Or maybe it’s you who doesn’t want her to belong.” Sand smirked.

Almost immediately, the solar’s blonde eyebrows eye cocked at him in a look of offence, and the moon elf knew he’d hit a nerve. The woman’s pale eyes left him and fell on Guerryn, as if to ask him to take Sand out of the room, but the emprix deva did not move an inch; instead he eyes her back intensively, questioningly.

 _So, there_ is _something between them that is related to Firanis,_ Sand mused in his mind, _and maybe that’s why she’s so reluctant in helping us… Who’d say Celestials were also prone to hatred and jealousy?_ If he could, he would have laughed at Eleste’s face again, but when he was busy pondering whether he should remark the tension in the air with the most acidic sentence he could come up with or wait for a nice denouement of their affair to come, the woman threw her arms about herself, her transparent skin seeping a bright white light, and _screamed_ , “Fine. He _can_ use my basin, but we’ll do so together. I cannot trust him to be alone with it.”

Firanis’s grandfather smiled. “I knew you’d be reasonable about this, Eleste.”

The last thought that formed on Sand’s mind as he left the room after _scheduling_ an hour with the solar was that, if you looked at it the right way and confused the light her skin was shedding with _fumes_ , you’d literally say that that Eleste was truly seething.

 

 

As she moved, a swirling mist seemed to be seeping from her pale, white skin; as she spoke, the air twinkled like small iron bells, and the walls seemed to dance with the rhythm of her acute, slightly high-pitched voice.

 _Homeless…_ One called.

 _Damned…_ the other spoke.

It wasn’t that there were really only two voices speaking; there were many, stitched together and echoing like a chorus with a bad tempo, with a half of its singers refusing to say the same thing that the other was singing at the time… but she knew how to tell those halves apart by now. After all, she’d been listening to them behaving like that for as long as she could remember. Not that that was a long time, as she’d just turned nine, but to someone of her age, even if that someone who could know the world as easily as she did, nine years seemed to be a whole lot of time.

Actually, even though she was so young, she knew a whole lot more of the world than most people did. She _knew_ it, but she did not _understand_ it… because, unlike people think, knowing and understanding are two very different things that tend to be confused and treated as equal.

 _Forsaken, we know something…_ whispered one.

 _They lie, Undone! We are the ones who know!_ Screamed the other.

She looked at one of her thin, small hands, watching how marvelous it seemed with the grey fog escaping and playfully swirling around it. The voices fought with each other to be heard, whispering, speaking, shouting over and over again in her head; she listened to them both, and after carefully selecting the words they’d whispered, she mingled and whispered them, forming a coherent full fledged sentence in the language of the Universe which turned the mist into fat drops of water and then into thin gems of ice.

 _You’re one of us, little one. Listen, for she is of the Light! She will come for you and tear you apart into pieces because she is one of_ them _!_ Claimed the first.

 _You’re blood of our blood, young child! She has pearl white skin and loves the shadows of temptation! She is_ theirs _, not ours!_ The second retorted.

She watched the gems breaking down and collapsing onto the floor at the exact moment the voices became quieter and someone opened the door into the room. “Hi, mom. Dad.” The girl greeted. Her mother smiled at her and caressed the long red river of the girl’s hair which fell down to the middle of her back; her father kissed her tenderly on the forehead. “How was it?” she asked.

Her mother sighed. “It’s the last time your aunt convinces me to come in her stead, Tyavain.” She took a slim hand to her back and muttered some complaints about being “too far in the pregnancy to be going around like this”.

Tyavain didn’t think so; from what her mother had told her, it usually took nine months of wishing for babies to be fully formed – and even though Tyavain knew her mother was lying through her teeth about babies being formed of wishes –, she knew that the thing about the nine months were true; after all, it had taken her Aunt Amianna that long before her little cousin Arihel was born.

“Your mother is like that because she ate too much. Again,” her father solemnly said under her mother’s piercing deep green gaze. “And also because she has to watch women dance when she cannot.”

Her mother’s hand collided with her father’s arm in a punch, but Tyavain would have been surprised if he’d even felt anything through the thick, well-defined muscles; well, he possible would have felt something if it were not her mother hitting him, because _her_ muscles were just like her: thin and lean; she was not, in any way, a physically strong person.

And those weren’t the only things in which her parents were opposites; to tell the truth, her mother and father, when together, always reminded her of a bright, shiny morning and of an ethereal moonlit night: they were absolutely contrary to each other, both in personality and image, but in the end, they were incomplete without each other; which, Tyavain thought, must’ve been something in the family, because aunt Amianna and uncle Anomen also made her think something of the sort, albeit the contrast wasn’t as obvious, at least when they were in public.

But she… Tyavain saw herself as a vast, luminous sunset: forever incomplete because there was not a thing which could complete her solely by itself.

“Did you notice what one of the women was, Valen?” her mother asked her father. “I almost thought she was another one sent after Tyavain… I was worried.” There, she put an arm around Tyavain’s shoulders and pushed her head against her overgrown stomach. “But then I saw her talking to a man who was hiding in the shadows, not a demon or a devil, and—”

Tyavain looked up at her mother’s suddenly hardened features, which made her look like one of the porcelain dolls she’d been given some time ago.

“I was worried as well, Amaya,” her father stated, but by now her mother’s lower lip was bleeding due to the strength she was biting into it. Tyavain knew by her father’s sorrowful look that it was time for her to leave to her room, so she kissed them both goodnight and left them alone.

 _Worthless…_ one crooned.

 _Unbelonging…_ the other sang.

And Tyavain looked out the window into the dark night sky and whispered a few words. A woman talking to a man hiding in the shadows… the voices amused her after she’d learned the meaning of their cryptic words… With time, she’d come to understand that one said lies and the other the truth – not because a _ny_ of them wanted to be honest with her, but because they had to be in constant conflict. This time, the Tanar’ri had lied; she wondered when it’d finally be the Baatezu’s pleasure to do so.

        

 

The familiar frozen landscapes greeted her once more.

Quiet, quiet snow fell around her, just like before; the only difference was that now, there were very thin rays of sun piercing the clouds in the sky.

“Back, my cursed?” the wind teased her in its wispy, thin voice. “I thought you’d forgotten you’re bound here... Three weeks is a long time.”

Firanis felt a hand graze the naked skin of her back and spun round to face it, but there was nothing.

“You know, I could free you from this place forever,” the wind claimed. “If you’d just give me her.”

Something seized her womb and grasped it so hard the aasimar bent down and fell on her knees.

“Do you want to make that trade? Never feel so cold again and never having to deal with this vexing remnant of the past? She’ll only be a hindrance to you, a reminder of him, of your little broken heart, of your wasted—”

“Go away!” Firanis shouted through gritted teeth.

“You don’t want to?” the wind asked.

“No.”

A stronger breeze brushed her hair forward… but it wasn’t a breeze… Instead of cutting air, there were locks of a very white, silken hair, that cut through her back like scissors on paper.

“Pity. It would have been an advantage to you…”

A thin, long hand grasped her skin and tilted her head up, forcing her to look at a woman’s beautiful wintery features, ruined by one of the most hideous smiles she’d ever perceived; the sight blinded her eyes and burned her mouth so much that Firanis could not scream to give voice to the agonizing pain she was feeling on all her body.

Night fell, lending the snow around her a darker color; blood spurted out of her and it became red; pain laced at her abdomen and she woke up to find she as screaming and that her legs happened to be very, very wet.

Firanis looked at Elanee, who stirred on her sleep beside her before she woke up as well; the wood elf’s eyes widened, and she darted to the door, screaming one of the Clerics’ names. However, it was only when Firanis noticed how really painful the contractions of her uterus were being that she understood why Elanee’s eyes had bulged out so horrifyingly.

She had entered premature labor.

 

 


	4. Rondo: Dawn, Anchor, Beginnings

**_Rondo_ **

_“That was nasty, my dear,” he stated, the tip of his right index finger touching the top of his Queen’s head. “Attacking my Queen through vessels… she won’t die just like that.”_

_“It’s called a minor conflict, honey. Before the great battles, those are always fought.” She then smirked as she leaned back on her chair and crossed her legs slowly, languishingly. “You’ve got your tricks,” she quirked up an eyebrow in the direction of the girl standing between her two Knights, “and I’ve got mine.”_

**Four**

_Dawn_

_Anchor_

_Beginnings_

“They got caught,” Belken’s hoarse voice was heard throughout the room, producing frowns and sneers in the faces of the couple sitting in front of him, “but they did their job.”

The woman tilted her chin up. “We heard that the assassin was wounded.” She shook her head before looking sideways at the man sitting beside her, wisps of caramel colored hair flowing around her face. “I told you she was a bad choice, Shemal. Whores never make effective assassins, let alone stealthy thieves; they’re used to either scream too loud or make whoever is under them do the same.”

Belken noticed her voice was cutting through the air like a sharp knife of criticism, but if it severed any of Shemal’s pride, he would never know, for his handsome face kept steady, neutral, staring at the Zhentarim kneeling in front of him.

“Why do you say so, Ethlinn?” Shemal’s hoarse, deep voice echoed through the room, like metal gongs shattering onto the ground. “They accomplished the mission, did they not?”

Ethlinn snorted, speaking sardonically, “Since when did you put beauty over competence? _They got caught_!” Shemal had to tilt his head sideways, away from the woman’s face which was now leaning into him, each word like a presumptuous scolding statement.

He eventually pushed her head away with his index finger, like a father disgusted by his child’s tantrums and asked, “Where are they now?”

Belken blinked before he replied, still astonished at the fuming woman and at Shemal’s steady tone despite how she kept blabbering about his alleged infatuations and carnal needs. “Rekat took her to Vasjra, my Lord. Aniel was stable the last time I heard of them.”

“Good.” Shemal nodded in appreciation. “She is to be sent to Yartar to command our efforts there—” At this, Ethlinn’s eyes widened, but instead of speaking, she let out a _hmpf_ and looked the other way, to one of the many stained glass windows; after he was sure she wouldn’t interrupt him, Shemal continued, “we need to take it; Baldur’s Gate is practically ours and with the regimen of Hosttowers of Luskan on the verge of collapsing, so will that city. And then we can move to Neverwinter itself.”

“We already have agents in Yartar, my—”

“Are you paid to point out the obvious, Belken?” Ethlinn’s voice soured his very blood when she spoke.

He bowed down. “No, my Lady.”

“Again!? Shut up. Send both the succubus and the thief there; tell them they’ll be fully filled in once they reach the city,” Her tone then became sweet, nonchalant, “lest they decide to run away in the middle of the journey and sell the information off to someone else.”

“Re… Rekat!?” the spokesman stuttered in disbelief.

The Lady exhaled through her nostrils. “Are you deaf? Yes, he as well, you useless scum—”

Shemal held out a hand, shushing the woman beside him. “You may go, Belken. And tell Aniel she’s one of us now.”

This time, Belken obeyed gladly, taking one last look at the Lady, whose skin, illuminated with the trembling orange light that came through the windows, could easily be confused with polished copper, decorated with bits of cinnamon.

That woman drove him nuts; just what was he supposed to say? How was he supposed to talk to her?

Belken, as the spokesperson he was, thought it was vital to his posting that he was able to stare into people’s eyes, hold their gazes and talk to them in a tone which was adequate to the situation. For instance, with Aniel, all he had to do to persuade her was give the assassin his best understanding, yet daring smile; with Rekat, he had to be tough, but not overly so, or the thief would most likely chuckle away because, in Rekat’s view, _if you cannot keep your employer under a leash, you might as well break it up before he makes a hound out of you_. So, as long as Rekat _thought_ he had some sort of power over him, Belken knew he’d do anything. But with the two right hands of the leader of the Zhents, he was at a loss.

Ethlinn, she had no patience and was as commanding and snappish as a pregnant harpy, although he had to admit her appearance was rather the one of a Celestial – she was so stunning, that it was almost impossible to look at her without feeling the flames of lust combusting your body - a _lmost,_ but not quite. After all, he knew Aniel.

Aniel herself had a bad temper, but it was nowhere near close to Ethlinn’s… just as Ethlinn’s looks were nowhere near Aniel’s. Belken nearly smiled; maybe that was why Ethlinn always spat Aniel’s name – while Ethlinn could be beautiful, Aniel stripped that word from all its meaning and made it look mundane, plain, _ugly_ ; also, Aniel could be _very_ submissive, and he didn’t think there was a chance he’d ever meet with Ethlinn’s humble side – or the _content_ one, for the matter.

Which led him to the eternal dilemma of how to direct to the Lady; if he were too loud, she’d complain; if he were too docile, there would be no end to her mocking; if he were direct, subtle, careful or blunt, she’d chastise him on and on. Belken had tried to understand her at first, but now all he cared about was not to anger her, as her satisfaction was obviously impossible.

And then, there was Shemal. Shemal was actually very patient and had no outbursts like the Lady, but he was more difficult to read than a blank parchment. No, Shemal was calm, analytical and, undoubtedly a military mastermind.

Their sudden rise to power, however, was what made him fear both of them the most. Ethlinn had risen because of her skills with the kukris, lack of attachments to any kind of people and her cruel, cold sense of how to treat others _right_ ; Belken did not doubt those characteristics were true in her, but from his point of view, she’d become important because she and Shemal were as close as flesh and bone.

And Shemal was… frightening. Belken had to admit that, even though he was a man, he couldn’t help but think that with the muscular, defined body, the full lips, the well-defined square jaw, the deep blue eyes and dark hair, Shemal could make _anyone_ – man or woman – swoon; there were even disturbing rumors that Shemal had seduced the previous right hand of Fzoul Chembryl only to have the man realize the folly he’d just fallen into and kill himself, leaving the seat open for none other than the left hand who was none other than himself.

That Shemal was capable of such things, Belken did not doubt. But without the flawless sword technique, expert tactics and persistence, he seriously suspected that Shemal’s dirty bed tricks would’ve brought him so far.

And now there was the matter that he had go see Vasjra… As if the day hadn’t been filled with petulant people already…

Belken closed the door, a sigh so loud escaping his lips that it reached Ethlinn’s ears. “Is this the most persuasive man we have, Shemal?”

“Sadly, yes.”

Ethlinn rolled her eyes and leaned back on her chair, massaging her temples. “The succubus and the thief can’t be separated.”

He smiled. “They won’t.”

“You put too much faith in their… relationship.”

Shemal laughed at her; Ethlinn frowned, a bitter, strong wave of resentment washing over her senses. “Why do you worry so? He _will_ go with her; it’s against his better judgment, against his self-imposed standards of disinterest, but those will shatter at the constant sight of her perfect figure. We will let the roots of,” he grimaced as he pronounced the next word, every single character of it leaving an acute vinegary taste on his mouth, “ _love_ be sown, let them fall so deeply and far that they’ll be blind to everything we make them see or do; and since none of them is slated for _that_ feeling,” she noticed how he avoided the word he repulsed, “they will break. Trust me Ethlinn, when I say he will not leave her…” he smirked, the curves of his lips portraying everything which made her skin crawl; her mind screamed for him to stop, anguished, and her body and hands were held on her chair as if they’d been glued by the horror the contemplation of his smile evoked in every fiber of her being.

“At least not yet.”

 

 

Firanis felt sick… in fact, she felt as if she was about to throw up.

Her forehead was sparkling with cold drips of sweat; her abdomen felt as if it was ready to be split in two and the contractions were like beatings of a club, coming at regular breaks, unlike her breath which had become ragged and shallow.

And there was blood… blood soaking the snow white linen sheets, staining them red, like it had once tainted the snow of the frozen landscapes of Fury’s Heart.

“The child is not coming out,” a voice echoed across a great distance… it sounded a lot like Elanee’s, but Firanis was not sure. Both of her sight and hearing were dim and wavering, to a point that she was almost blind and deaf.

“Oh Gods…” someone else spoke.

“What are you doing here?” other person began squabbling. “She’s giving birth. No men but male priests!”

A pause. Then the latter voice spoke the same last exclamation louder, and there was the sound of a door being slammed shut.

If she could, Firanis would have shuddered. Did she actually _care_ if someone saw her most intimate parts uncovered and bloodied? She was dying, wasn’t she? What difference did it make, then?

“The child is upside down,” a calm, quiet person softly pointed out.

“Breech position?”

“Yes.”

Firanis coughed when she felt her breath stopping at the edge of her throat, and the pain coursing through her lower parts increased. _Auril, why have you done this?_ She moaned to herself, feeling two claws grasping the sides of her swollen stomach and… trying to twist it! She screamed and tried to move away, but a firm hand clasped her head and combed her hair soothingly.

She had no choice but to let the claws work and allow the hurting to rise up.

“The child has to be born this way; we can’t turn her now,” said... Zhjaeve after the grazing on her stomach ceased; in a surprisingly coherent move, Firanis looked to where she thought to be the side of her bed and, as she opened her mouth, a foul, nauseating taste seemed to creep over and out of it.

“This is not good,” someone noted. “She has just vomited.”

“ _Really_? Don’t you think we’ve noticed it already, Zhjaeve?”

“Neeshka, stop nagging and hold her head. Casavir’s already busy with trying to keep her body in bed!” the voice then changed from that spluttering, authoritative tone to a more warm and patient one. “Come on, Firanis, you can do it. Push.”

It was strangely like it’d been in the frozen landscapes of her soul… But for a reason, she’d been thoroughly confused back then, with her soul in a plane and body in other, and she’d not been able to understand what people had meant when they said that there was a time in which you’re so deeply drowned in pain that you grow so accustomed to it as if it’d been sewed to your being; and now… Now she could say she did because she was conscious, in both mind and body.

Awareness can be such a cruel, harsh thing…  Even more so when it’s your own feelings you wish you weren’t sentient of.

She caught someone proffering a “She’s going to bleed to death at this rate” and someone else bitching about inappropriate sentences.

 _I told you it would have been an advantage for you, my cursed._ Firanis heard a voice swirling to her, like tiny pieces of ice breaking down and flying in the wind. _I thought I had given you enough reasons,_ _but you still refuse to believe me, don’t you?_  The voice made a _tsk_ ing sound, as if it was disappointed with her. _Have I ever lied to you, Firanis?_

The voice fell silent for a while, long enough for Firanis to realize she was panting, with tears streaming down her face at the effort she’d been making.

 _But you know,_ the icy breeze crooned again, _a simple memory can be as killing as sword and spell…_

Quietude… Firanis felt more tears rolling down her cheeks.

_Let’s see which one kills you first._

Almost immediately after, there was something similar to a stab on the back of her head, something so strong that Firanis herself screaming through the foggy layers of thought, her body mindlessly obeying the orders someone was giving it.

After that, there was a wail and Firanis wasn’t sure of who had cried it.

 

 

Her eyelids fluttered open and she took a hand to her temples, massaging them. Her whole body was aching with a strange deadness, except for the zone below her left breast, which felt as if it were on fire; she pulled her shirt up to examine it, but saw only an already fading red line.

The memories of that night began playing back on her mind, stuttering melodies of a damaged music box; she and Rekat had been leaving the Silvershield manor, their work done. But… someone had seen them and had warned the guards and one of them had come after Rekat and she… she had shoved him aside and taken part of the blow herself!

Aniel rolled to the side and frowned. Why had she done that, exactly? If the world had taught her a lesson is that you cannot care about anyone but yourself unless you want to end up wasted and killed; no one is worth your freedom, no one is worth your _life_ , no one…

Her thoughts stopped as her mind got caught by the abrupt realization that there was someone breathing behind her! She tried to turn, but that person held her strongly, the long, slightly calloused fingers grasping her forearms so hard that it hurt.

“Abrupt movements will make you sick; lie down and don’t panic, If I wanted you dead, you’d be so by now.”

Aniel hiccupped with the intensity with which her heart was quivering upon noticing the way his touch no longer seemed to pain her, but to make the free parts of her body grow tense in whispers and moans of a sensation she didn’t understand.

“Rekat?” Aniel asked.

“Who could it be? Your mistress?” he replied, traces of an ironic humor drawn on his voice; Aniel pursed her lips and laid down on the bed. “Good. Now, how do you feel?”

“Like I’m with a hangover, but worse because I can’t throw up like I want to.”

The thief chuckled, and Aniel looked up at his face, which was inclined towards her, only to notice the skin of Rekat’s taut neck was marked with bites and purple bruises. “What—”

“The price of your healing,” he completed, his warm breath playfully tingling her skin…

Aniel bit down her lip; she felt guilty, but… why? If he’d endured whatever had been the price, hadn’t it been because he’d wanted to? Why would he even _bother_ to take her to a temple if he already knew there’d be a high price? And was there a point in feeling guilt when _he_ had been the one whom she’d taken the blow for? Wouldn’t he be the one lying on this bed if it hadn’t been for _her_? She’d saved _his_ life, so the least he could do was thank her by paying her some cure at a temple! Not to mention that those bite marks looked like the ones she used to make to her own customers when asked to, so he’d probably been enjoying himself throughout the payment delivery!

“Are you upset, Aniel?” he leaned in, the tip of his nose grazing against her own; Aniel couldn’t tell what he’d meant by that, but it _teased_ her, making the rest of her skin feel jealous of the touched parts.

“Why would I be?”

“Because you’re shivering.”

She frowned and seethed and examined the marks more closely; they were indeed love bites – _all_ of them. She could see the holes the woman’s teeth had left from here! It filled her with an unpredictable rage that made her want to lash out at him… but Rekat’s hands began tracing the contours of her biceps before moving to her collarbone… it was so strangely soothing and… so alien, to be touched as tenderly as this.

“What was the price?” Aniel asked, trying to break off the currents of pleasure that had begun coursing through her body.

“Pain Vasjra asked me to do her a favor.”

“A favor to _Pain_ Vasjra?”

He nodded; this time, it was his mouth which brushed her nose, her heart skipping a beat. “This is a Loviatar Temple. A Pain is a Cleric of the highest order.”

“You’ve brought me to a sado-masochist healer, Rekat?”

“She’s allied with us; where else would you have me go?”

Aniel sighed. “Nowhere, Nevermind.”

Rekat snickered; in that deep voice with just a hint of hoarseness, it seemed more like a sharp wind blowing through small pebbles, making them fall down and down, until they hit the pond at the base of the hill. He moved his face so that his eyes were boring deeply into hers. “You _are_ upset, Aniel,” he insisted.

She tried to think of some angry retort to throw at him, but her whole mind was enveloped in those shimmering, vivid eyes of his… Gods, they were so much like currents of green water, imprisoning her in its depths so that she could marvel at the bliss of drowning in them…

Those eyes were chains… She despised chains because they had been present in every single bad turn of her life; in Zakhara, when the Djinni had found her tied down to a palm tree while she was playing and decided she wasn’t _pure_ enough to be in Huzuz; when she’d been sold to a merchant, her ankles and wrists had been bound; in Skuld, there had been whips and chains to prevent her from escaping the Den and when she did, there had been those same things on bed sheets and jails, waiting for her to use them, to _submit_ to them.

Yes, she loathed everything that meant she’d have to stay put and still and wait for a chance to escape. But if Rekat’s eyes made her feel that way, then why couldn’t she hate them as well? It’d certainly make things easier on her, and she’d never worry about him again, nor she’d ever look out for him again, or take another stab like she had…

He blinked and Aniel managed to look away, “I told you I am not upset.”

“No? Then why haven’t you even tried to cover up your breasts?”

The next thing Rekat knew was that her forehead had heavily collided against his, her hands fumbling with the hem of the shirt, bringing it down to cover her whole torso as she spoke a number of words in an exotic, fluid language; from the way she spat them, they could only be curses to his name.

“Oh, right, whores aren’t prudes,” Rekat blurted; the language changed, then, but kept its indecent tone; his fingers began tracing circles on the nape of her neck it was transformed again, but this time, he knew what she meant all too well.

The lines of his face hardened; Aniel turned, possibly to yell something else at him, but her blabbering ceased once she noticed how grim his expression had become. Rekat saw the angular brows of the assassin come down in a frown, her small, upwards nose wrinkling up and wondered how she’d come to learn that damned tongue.

Aniel snorted. “So _now_ you’re all—”

“How did you learn Mulhorandi?” Rekat interrupted; this time, it were her features paling down, all color stolen from her pronounced cheeks, her full lips turning to a dull brown.

She began fiddling with the bed sheets, her big eyes wide open, seemingly struggling to find an answer… but it never came, because someone burst into the room; Rekat and Aniel’s gazes met briefly, and the sudden anguish he saw in hers – so different from the usual coolness - caused his breath to catch.

“My dear Aniel, you’re up and well! Such a pleasant surprise!” Belken’s high-pitched voice came grinding into Rekat’s ears; the thief gritted his teeth at the newcomer, who took a hand to his chest. “Rekat, don’t be like that… Or perhaps it’s better that you _be_ … Any man who’s not overly on edge after a session with Vasjra should be considered mad. And you—”

“What do you want?” Rekat hissed.

A flicker of a smile crossed Belken’s lips as he strode over to Aniel and bowed down. “I’m here to welcome my Lady Aniel to our organization.” He pushed one of her elegant hands to him and kissed it. “My Lord Shemal and my Lady Ethlinn have given you the rank of Lieutenant, for a start and you and Rekat here are to march to Yartar tomorrow morning, where you’ll meet Captain Kalyt, who will fill you in with the details.”

Rekat blinked; well, he knew _he_ was going to Yartar after the display at the Silvershield Manor, but with _Lieutenant_ _Aniel_? Why in Hells had they promoted her just as they’d welcomed her to the Zhentarim?

She looked at him before eyeing Belken in the eye and posed a question that, despite its twisted implications, had been asked in such an innocent, eager tone that Rekat had nearly laughed.

It had been: “Can I kill my mistress before we go?”

 

 

Firanis slowly opened her eyes and sat up; the world swirled around her, and she had the sensation that she was falling into its core, down and down until she hit the bottom and… Died?

“You’ve only been asleep for around four hours, if that’s what you’re wondering,” whispered a strong, deep voice beside her; however, to her ever throbbing mind, it felt more like a shout.

The aasimar looked to her side. “Casavir? What—” she stopped, swallowing the rest of the sentence; her abdomen still hurt, and so did her legs; she searched for the fragments of her memories, but they seemed to be very far apart because of the… shock she was under.

Shock… she’d been shocked in the frozen landscapes of her soul; she been shocked because she was bleeding from her insides, and her blood had been tainting the snow, as… as it was on her bed sheets now, stains on their white purity, and…

“They’ve cast a weak spell on you, Firanis; don’t struggle with it overmuch and listen to me.” Casavir’s voice was now soothing and gentle and caring… For a reason, she knew that it’d been a while since she’d heard it in that tone and was very thankful that it was this way again. “You lost a great deal of blood; so much that they had everyone who could cast a healing spell stuffed up in this room to prevent you from dying.”

She blinked, nodding weakly; sure, she remembered screaming now, and cursing someone’s name and… hoping for someone else and…

Her eyes quickly bulged out. _The child_ …

Casavir seemed to have understood her thoughts. “The child is fine, Firanis; in fact, she’s right next to you.”

Firanis turned to the opposite side; how could she have missed it before? Indeed, there was a crib, and a very small, very white thing moved in it, the little eyes closed, the small hands grasping the soft covers; sitting on the floor, asleep, were Neeshka, Elanee and Zhjaeve. When she faced Casavir again, she noticed that on the floor by his side were Khelgar and Grobnar.

“Sand is resting because of the amount of spells he had to cast on you; Ammon, I believe, is biting your grandfather’s ears off because this room is too small for all of us,” the Paladin explained. “If you try hard, you can hear them from here.”

Firanis smiled. She really _did_ have the best companions she could have wished for… how could she have been so selfish?

“Thank you, Casavir.”

“For what?”

“For being here,” she softly whispered. “Can I… hold her now?”

Casavir seemed to have been taken aback by her question, but rose from his chair, walking very straightly around the bed; he reached the crib and carefully picked the fragile body of the child up and handed her to Firanis.

“I thought she was going to die, you know?” the aasimar crooned, her arms and hands enveloping the newborn baby, cradling her tenderly. “It was somehow scarier than losing my own life.”

“But none of you had to pay that price.”

“I know.” For moments, no one spoke in the room and she could indeed hear Ammon shouting at someone outside. Firanis let the tip of her index finger feel the cane of the baby’s slightly sharp nose, “She’s so beautiful, Casavir, I—”

A door swung open and a chilly, angry breeze filled the room; some of the ones who’d been asleep moaned; all of them woke up, but that Firanis didn’t even notice, because she was staring at the newcomer, mouth fallen ajar.

“Of all places and you had to be in this sinkhole,” a glacial voice said; the aasimar instinctively pulled her daughter closer to her. “Now, don’t be overprotective, my blessed. You know I don’t wish to remain here any longer than necessary.”

“We tried to top her, Firanis—” Guerryn began explaining, but his granddaughter didn’t even notice him speaking; the woman was the one who had her undivided attention.

Firanis’s copper eyebrows were cocked at the woman. “Why are you here, Auril?”

She smirked and stepped closer to her. “Why, to see that marvelous piece of meat which sprouted out of you.” She bent down to look at the baby girl and, with a squeamish voice of feigned thrill, she said “Why, isn’t she an adorable little thing, my cursed! Her hair color is not yours, though, but I have to say, the reddish-brown is going to look great on her. And—" the girl’s eyelids fluttered open and stared deep into the woman’s light blue eyes with her mouth forming an “o”. Auril smiled, her perfect features becoming something hideous; the baby hiccupped several times before she broke down crying in fear. Firanis hugged her even closer to her breast, lips tightly pursed in defiance. “But she hasn’t got your eyes either, Firanis, my dear,” the Frostmaiden chided while shaking her head. “Now, where have I seen this color before?” she took a small, long-nailed white finger to her chin, and after several moments, she gasped while clapping her hands together. “I know!” she exclaimed. “The ranger, oh, what was his name… Bishop.”

Firanis pierced Auril with her gaze while cradling her child. “Shut up,” she commanded.

But she didn’t. “Yes, _Bishop_. The one who left you at the end because he was just so scared of his _love_ for you. Isn’t that a wonder that she’s got the exact same color of his eyes? Brown, like melted, warm honey. Isn’t that what that feeble, love-struck mind of yours recognized when you looked into his murderous, treacherous—”

“Excuse me, my Lady,” Casavir called out; Auril turned to him, her pale eyes studying his features.

She then looked at Firanis, a mixture of disgust and admiration on her face. “Say, my cursed, why does he linger here with you?”

“He’s my friend.”

“ _Friend!?”_ Auril shouted, a hand on her mouth to emphasize amazement. “Last time I visited you, you were only thinking of how much you’d hurt him by turning him down when he, so very eloquently, confessed his undying love for you. So, _friend_? Don’t kid me, my blessed. We both know that if the ranger hadn’t showed up, you two would be all over each other.”

Firanis’s cheeks turned to a bright shade of red; Auril’s icy voice said something else, but she never knew what it’d been because her child’s wailing increased in volume and she had to pull her closer and rack the little frame.

 _I told you you would regret it._ This time, Auril spoke inside her mind to make sure Firanis would hear her.

 _Get out!_ The aasimar commanded the same way, hugging the child closer.

_Why?_

_You’re making Ilwyn cry! Get out!_

“Ilwyn…” Auril mused. “Funny; I recall you speaking of mist - and of his voice.”

“Get out.” Firanis was gnashing her teeth at her, frowning, with a ferocity which was as strong as the one of polar bear protecting her cub…

Auril’s glacial laughter was the last thing that was heard before she left the room.

Firanis began shivering, the well known cold invading her body, greeting her like a long lost enemy that _enjoyed_ their strife against each other.

“Well…” was the first and only word Firanis could discern from the torrent of questions Neeshka began asking her; then Grobnar joined her; then Khelgar. Firanis looked at the three of them, completely lost; she saw Elanee take the baby from her arms and, after putting her to sleep, advised Firanis to rest, because they’d talk tomorrow; she gave the others threatening glances and everyone who’d been there and they resentfully walked out of the room with her.

In the last month, Firanis’d found a strange way to come to terms with her wrong decisions: forgetting those events had ever happened. It was wrong, truth, but it had given her mind the ease it had needed to heal and go back to its old, carefree self. But now, something heavy seemed to fall inside her, dragging her down with it; she realize it was a burden made of lies and disappointment, of fear and anger, disbelief and selfishness… _Her_ burden, so weighty and guilty that it forced her to remember everything she’d been trying to forget, everything she’d been struggling to bury, everything she’d tried not to think about…

She heard steps approaching her… whose? Hadn’t they all left with Elanee? Wasn’t she alone now, in peace?

 “You’re crying, Firanis,” Casavir noted.

“I am not!” the aasimar exclaimed, shaking her head, the irregularly cut hair falling around her face to hide it.

“Yes you are.”

This time, she only bit into her lip, saying nothing until a calloused hand split her fringe open and forced her to look up and making it easier for the tears to fall free.

“Don’t cry, Firanis,” the Paladin pleaded. “You have someone else who depends on you now.”

She knew he was trying to comfort her, so she made an effort to smile and stop the weeping, but it kept going on, like a fountain whose spring was on her eyes.

“Do you regret having her?” he asked.

Firanis timidly shook her head.

“Do you regret _anything?_ ”

Again, a shake.

“Then you’ve got no reason to cry.”

She looked up; there was silence in the room, a silence so strong that it blocked off everything else; Casavir kissed her forehead before walking out and remained motionless at the doorstep for a couple of moments before definitely closing the door behind him.

The burden tugged at her feet, but she didn’t fall with it this time; but then it became heavier, so much heavier that even though she struggled, Firanis began falling down with it again; but as she descended, a thought crossed her mind.

_Is your burden dragging you down as well, Bishop?_

 

 

Ale. Scouting people around forests and forsaken trails. Payment. Ale. Shooting arrows; catching people so what other people could hurt them. Payment. More ale. The thrill of monotony and routine. Apparently, his life had resumed back to what it had been between Redfallow’s Watch and the Second War of Shadow.

Bishop sighed. Had it _really_ been four months?

“ranger?” a loud, female voice shrieked his name, commandingly; yes, it had been four months since then… “Why have we stopped?”

“Do you want to walk around in circles, woman? Then let me think!”

The woman closed her fists, the only way she had to keep her manners on a tight leash, and waited. Bishop smirked… Damned Zhents and their constant scolding and questioning and impatience; and damn him for allowing himself to be lured by the thousand gold promise if he could find a way to have them travel through Kryptgarden Forest unnoticed.

“Yartar is just a couple of miles that way.” Bishop pointed east. “Should take you three hours or so to reach there, considering all the cargo you’re carrying.”

His employer smiled. “Glad you’re cooperating so well now, ranger.” One of her calloused fingers caressed his cheek and traveled down to his upper lip, burst open by a very well landed and aimed punch just some hours ago. “We wouldn’t want to permanently ruin that face of yours.”

Bishop slapped her hand away; something with the fierceness of a bull hit his stomach as a reply.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, ranger, you know how much of a sore loser I can be.” The woman whispered in his face, black eyes shooting daggers at his skull.

 _Fucking Zhent…_ Bishop mentally called her; or at least he thought it had been through his mind, but, for the kick he got in his gut, it might as well have been proffered out loud. Pity. That would have to be just another bruise…

“Don’t dawdle; if we take longer than three hours, you’ll get no payment.”

He had to shake his head at this and orient himself once again… Once he’d found East again, he went forth into the woods, the woman and her slaves not far behind.

Four months ago, and the worst injury that had been inflicted upon him had been nothing but a stab at his senses; Bishop snorted at the irony of the situation and allowed the familiar barriers of thought to form inside his mind again… He couldn’t be reminded of the past now… The past was behind his back, and _she_ would never return again.

Still, they’d found no bodies… unable to remain any further in Neverwinter because of the price on his traitor’s head, but he’d heard that no bodies, except for the bitching sorceress’s and the Shadow Reavers’; a big part of him was thankful that she wouldn’t possibly return; a little, but lingering other had cried, moaned, wailed and shouted that it couldn’t be possible, that _he_ had to go search for her because _she_ was still alive, somewhere and then…

And then…

And then she’d kill him for betraying her? No, as hard as he thought, he could not imagine Firanis being so inhuman to that point; at the very least, she’d hear him out before killing him. Yes, their reencounter, no matter how he looked at it, would undoubtedly, always end up with _his_ death.

Because his forgiveness was as out of reach as the sky.

Bishop stumbled on a root; damned Zhent for twisting his ankle yesterday morning… Damned be Firanis for still haunting his thoughts. Damn him for allowing that little part of him to faintly linger with hopes of seeing her again… with hopes that, someday, the impossible _would_ happen.

So, he did what he always did when that little voice started whispering: he shut it out with all his will, with another one which shouted that she was dead and that that was the best way she could be.

Because there was no point in dwelling in that which will never happen, was there?

Two and three quarter hours later, Yartar stood in front of him. His employer once again by his side, and her annoying voice was like a mosquito on his brain. “We made it on time, ranger; who’d say that you could be so capable even with a twisted ankle?”

“Money. Now,” Bishop demanded.

She laughed. Bishop realized he did not like that laughter.

“Bishop, honey,” she whispered, “you think I’d let you go? You’ve _seen_ us and, most likely, heard of our plans.”

He told her he hadn’t; it was a lie, but he could care less about their petty plans of conquests and occupations.

“No, pretty boy. You work full time for us now.”

“Or else?”

She shrugged. “Or else I’ll kill you. And trust me, you have no idea of how I can prolong a death sentence.” She’d giggled at the end of that phrase, her childish features lighting up with yet another sadistic smile that made Bishop get cold to the bone.

His life and serving this woman; death and damnation somewhere off in the Nine Hells… Mmmm, which one would be the less painful course, he wandered?

“Fine, but I want my money,” Bishop replied.

“Oh, ranger, don’t worry about that. You’ve earned it.”

Firanis had called him a coward once; and he could fully agree with her now.

 

 

 


	5. Fugue: Explanations, Twist, Mist

**_Fugue_ **

****

_He tapped his chin thoughtfully before reaching out for one of his Rooks, “You know, I never thought you’d decide to play it this way.”_

_“Which way?”_

_“Cautious. Slow. Precise. That is so not like you, my darling; you tend to be so spontaneous.” He explained, moving the rook forward._

_“Things can change.”_

_He watched as his once white rook became tainted, the alabaster stone slowly becoming stained with black; soon, the stain covered up the whole piece and it became as dark as all of her other’s._

_He smirked. “Yes. But not permanently.”_

**Five**

_Explanations_

_Twists_

_Mist_

 

 

In the room of glass walls and floor, the water in the crystal basin shimmered.

“I have readied the basin for your usage, Mister Sand,” said the liquid, chanting voice of the solar, its tone a criticizing razor blade. “Despite your beliefs, it _does_ recognize who should and should not exploit it, lest we would all be Oracles. Please don’t make a waste of both my efforts and time.”

“No, that is what _you_ do, Lady Eleste,” Sand bickered. “Contrary to your assumptions, I happen to know what I should and should not do.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Truly? Presumptuous of you to deem that you hold more power that the Savras Oracle herself.”

“My Lady, it is as well presumptuous of a solar to have a sight clouded by prejudice and selfishness.” Sand muttered, smirking. “Now, if you don’t have any sort of remark to make, we should start; this _is_ going to take a while, so I advise you not to interrupt me anymore, lest we’ll both be wasting more of _our_ valuable time.”

Eleste snorted, but stepped away from the crystal basin; her face gained creases form a frown when she noticed the wizard _painting_ runes on the pure divination instrument, and her fists closed in indignation when he _threw_ something into the sacred water. The moon elf was _tainting_ an object of Savras! The insolence, the recklessness, the _stupidity_! But she kept still as he wove his enchantments and prepared the container for the spell… she’d promised Guerryn that much.

Guerryn… No matter the past, no matter the pain, no matter the feelings, it always came down to him.

She’d been observing his granddaughter for a while before the second War of Shadow came to an end because she’d had a vision of her half-dead form crossing a portal to Empyrea and it’d been wounding to watch her path twist and turn as she became more and more hurt by everything which stood on her way, whether it be the outcome of events which had happened in a time prior to her own, her choices and even the very lack of them.

Which was why she sympathized with Firanis: for the _lack_ of choices, especially regarding one matter: the matter of the person she could not help but love.

It always begins with a quiet thing; a gesture, a word, a moment… then that thing grows to be something else, something that is so strong that it can sprain your insides until your senses are blind, your mind confused and your heart unsettled; soon, you can’t make a point without thinking of the person affecting you so strongly, you can’t breathe right until you make sure he or she is safe and sound and you can’t even imagine what life would be if that someone wasn’t by your side.

Indeed, that’s how subtly love can start and how explosively it can end. Eleste wouldn’t even have noticed when Firanis’s affection towards the ranger started if she hadn’t undergone the same thing before, in a very similar way.

Still, even with the knowledge that Firanis was truly a good person, impatience had overcome Eleste when she noticed how Firanis behaved around the ranger… it’d been like watching someone falling from a great height to the very bottom of the abyss and be thankful for being allowed to remain there.

Falling so hard and so far for a man who could not be _tied_ to his very own emotions and the person who nurtured them; and not only that, she’d willingly bore his child and held on to it as if it were her everything. It only showed how naïve the aasimar really was.

But Eleste could not blame Firanis when she, despite her age and status, had once been innocent, easily amazed and a fool. The only difference between them was that she could have turned back and Firanis could not.

“I will start now, Lady Eleste,” she heard the moon elf say; Eleste just nodded, the memories still whirling on her mind… she should be happy to be helping Firanis and, through her, make Guerryn happy…

Eleste looked out the glass walls. The sun was falling already, which meant that they’d been here for at least half a day. The solar sighed and observed the moon elf as he gestured and chanted in front of the scrying bowl; she recognized the spell almost immediately - not because she’d ever cast it, as she was a Cleric and her divination spells were different from the wizard’s – but because she’d seen several Wizards using it before when they wanted to know how their companions were faring.

Which meant that the elf was risking that the girl was someone he already knew! It’d possibly work if he was right, but if he was not, the consequences would take their dire toll on him!

The water went black and froze; from where the solar was, it looked like a bright piece of black iron; it broke into a viscous liquid and simmered, forming a black spiral. Like snakes, tendrils spun out of it, wrapping themselves to the border of the basin as if it were flesh. The crystal water around the black spiral rose, and it shaped itself in the form of a young girl, standing on the base of the black sun.

Eleste gasped… Sand had done it!

“ _The Black Sun is growing…_ ” the girl whispered, looking down at her feet. “ _Is that why you wanted to scry me, Mister Sand? You wanted to talk to me before I’m consumed?_ ”

That… that voice! Eleste had heard that voice before several times, albeit the physique of its owner had never been clear. But the voice…

“I’d suspected it was you… it is a wonder that Firanis couldn’t tell it right from the start,” Sand said; the girl’s lips curved up in an aggrieved smile.

Her image wavered for moments. “ _They’ve noticed you._ ”

“They?”

“ _The taints. They’re not used to not being present. But you called Tyavain, and only Tyavain came, not them. That’s why I can talk to you so clearly. It is… painful, though, this sudden amount of lucidity._ ”

“Can you tell me why Firanis does not remember you, then?”  

“ _Back when her friend died, she only heard my voice and never saw my face. I made the cold fade then, but it was not enough. When she was lost in Fury’s Heart, I had to come for her again and make her see that she’d have to leave that place with a wound on her soul._ ”

Sand’s eyes widened. “Wound on her soul?”

The girl nodded. “ _Yes. All the pieces were within her reach, except for the ones he possessed… he holds a great deal of her, you know? And he unknowingly holds on to it, as if it’s his very anchor to life; the bad thing is, he’s too much of a coward to admit it._ ”

“You’ve met Bishop?”

Again, her image wavered. “ _Yes. I saw him a month after you disappeared and talked to him. He…_ ” Tyavain’s voice faltered for moments, while she apparently struggled with something they could not see. “ _It doesn’t matter now. Just know that it’s inevitable that they meet again._ ”

“Why?”

“ _Because they’re two halves of a whole, Mister Sand. And unless you want Firanis to be forever shattered, then—_ ”

“Who are you?” Eleste strode into the conversation, unable to sit by and being limited to only watch it. This voice… it was tied to her son! So many visions, so many pieces she’d seen and this voice had always been there, speaking, and it was only of a _girl_!

 “ _Always the question, isn’t it?_ ” The girl’s watery figure turned to her, the neutral look now turned to a deeply anguished one. “ _I’m the Twice-damned. The Homeless. The Unbelonging. But here is only Tyavain._ ”

“Even like this, you reek of the Blood Wars…” Eleste pointed out, stammering, adding, very quietly, to herself a _“Like he did…”_

“ _I know. They’re calling me, even now. Both Baatezu and Tanar’ri… They’re battling over my body because Tyavain is here and left it vacant for them.”_ Tyavain inhaled and turned to look at Sand again. _“I have to leave, else my body will split… Know that Firanis’s stunt left the pathways between the planes in a mess… do not try using portals to Toril until she’s fully recovered. I believe we’ll meet again and I’m sorry._ ”

Before various bright lines covered the girl’s transparent skin and her image shattered, Eleste wondered what had the apology been for. Then the room was filled with a strong red light, coming from the basin; for moments, Eleste did not see a thing; when she recovered her sight, she noticed, to her very own terror, that the basin was _broken_!

Her mouth fell ajar and closed several times, her being unable to absorb the full shock all at once. Her God’s sacred instrument… wrecked!

Sand whistled. “I’d never thought her presence would leave a trace so strong. Imagine a scrying image able to affect the environment in which the spell took place…”

His ranting went on, but the solar was unable to hear him. Oh, true, she’d taken profit from this little play, but the cost had been too high! What would Savras do to her now when she’d been so careless to the point of allowing his most sacred basin to break?

A knock on the door; very vaguely, she saw Guerryn stride in, while saying something about a red light. By Savras, why couldn’t she see? What was blurring her gaze now?

The moon elf bowed and muttered something which sounded like a “Thank you.”, but Eleste could barely hear it with the cacophony of feelings stirring inside her. The ones of fear and anger at the damned elf, along with hurt pride because _he_ did something she could not do; and the ones which were grateful that at least now, she knew a fragment of her son’s destiny, even though…

“Eleste?” it was Guerryn’s deep voice, calling out to her, was it not? “Eleste, you’re crying.”

So, that was what had been making seeing so difficult; no wonder she didn’t remember what tears felt like… it’d been a while since she’d last cried.

“The basin broke, Guerryn.” Her voice came out like a turbulent river, unable to keep steady. “But… why do I feel like it was worth it?”

Guerryn placed his hands on her cheeks and lifted her face, causing the welled up tears to leave her eyes. “What happened, Eleste?”

She breathed in. “The girl… The girl who aided your granddaughter is… an anomaly. She should not exist, Guerryn, and yet she _does_. She’s both Baatezu and Tanar’ri and she’s strong enough to make the world _change_ when she’s nothing but a scrying image. And she’s _his_ hope! That abomination is _his_ hope!”

Eleste saw Guerryn’s gentle blue eyes closing as he embraced her, telling her not to worry, that everything would be alright. That at least the owner of the voice she’d so frequently told him about had a face… And new feelings added to the mass which was bumping inside her, and even more memories surfaced.

Firanis… it’d started with compassion, had it not? Compassion for someone who hated both the world and himself… So different from Eleste’s own beginning, where it’d been enticed by admiration and shame.

It was a painful memory, that one… she’d just been moved to Empyrea, where the water of the Lake was pure and clean, a necessary piece to fuel her abilities and scrying devices. The people welcomed her, sustained her pride and vanity at being one of Savras’s Oracles, showed her around the city and presented her to its ruler, Raziel the Crusader and his right hand, a Sunrise Lord named Guerryn the Understanding.

Guerryn… he’d been so sure, so selfless, so patient with her that Eleste saw all her vanity wither in front of him and give way to love. The only problem had been that Guerryn loved someone other than her: a mortal, a sun elf, whose name Eleste never learned due to a mind clouded by sorrow and helplessness. They had a child, Guerryn and the woman; Eleste herself had another, the father being none other than the ruler of this layer.

Back then, something told her Guerryn would be impossible, now that they both had other responsibilities… Sadly, Destiny was not kind to those two children: one had turned to the cold and the other became a betrayer; Guerryn’s lover left, and whatever existed between her and Raziel dissipated when their son decided to turn on them… And there had been Guerryn again, comforting her, holding her as they watched their children turn away from their parents’ paths of goodness and redemption… But at least there was hope in Guerryn’s lineage, in the form Firanis who, no matter what, was still the savior of her own land, while in hers… in hers there was nothing but a betrayer whose hopes laid in a girl consumed by the madness of the Blood War taints.

She closed her eyes and leant against the deva, closing the embrace, finally understanding that perhaps her God had seen this and had already begun her punishment long ago.

 

 

 Tyavain screamed.

She’d suspected, in those rare minutes of clarity, that the voices would only be louder upon her return; indignant, mocking, scolding… she was expecting those. But this… her body felt as if there were two giants on each side of it, pulling and pushing in opposite directions until her flesh became split and her bones snapped.

“Stop it…” she pleaded, her hands grasping the sides of her head with all the strength she had. “Stop… Please, _stop_!”

 _She is ours!_ One shouted, and her left side started to burn, with traces of vapor protruding from her skin.

 _No; she belongs to us. Let go!_ The other retorted. She was fully on fire, her very own core combusting; her heart seemed to have gone up and lodged itself on her throat, as well; everything started to become red, and her back really, really _hurt_!

“Mom!” Tyavain screamed, eyes shut, arms tightly clutching her knotted stomach. “I can’t… hold them! Dad!”

She breathed; the air was brimstone and her lungs refused to let it inside, causing her to choke and cough; she cried, but the tears evaporated as soon as they touched her skin. Her legs crumbled and she fell to wallow on he floor, moaning.

It felt like there were two hooks tied to her back, pulling the flesh out, leaving the way open for something to jut out of her scapulas… Gods, it hurt so much and the voices were so loud that she wasn’t sure if she was crying out for help anymore.

_Let her go, Baatezu!_

_Unsink your claws from her, Tanar’ri!_

“Please…” Tyavain moaned, feeling the skin on her back crack and something freeing itself… she caught the scent of something metallic – her blood possibly.

 _She is_ ours _!_

 _No! She belongs to_ us _!_

One taint shrieked; the other roared. Then, they both fell silent.

It was strange, but it’d happened before, albeit she had never found out why. When certain people touched her, the voices went quiet for moments and couldn’t rise beyond murmurs as long as those people’s skin was in contact with her own.

So… why now?

Tyavain looked at her arm; someone was grabbing it, the thin, strong fingers grasping it so strongly that the skin around it grew very white.

“Will you be quiet?” the man’s voice – deep and with the slightest hint of hoarseness – hissed at her. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

His eyes were of a strange shade of green… very light and transparent, like a forest lake; the taints resumed their whispers on the back of her mind, but she couldn’t discern any coherent sentences… except for a name, told by the Baatezu and a question posed by the Tanar’ri.

He shook her; it surprised Tyavain that both Taints had hated the violence, and her lips moved.

“Rekat Banoub… Schezemu the Unpredictable… Where is the succubus?”

Tyavain heard her words flowing away through ever particle in the room, but the voice which had said them was not her own. It was cavernous, yet high-pitched; solid and twirled; lost and precise… That voice scared her, but there was nothing which could describe the way the man… Rekat… looked at her.

“Who are you?” he asked between gasps.

 _“Who are you?”_ suddenly, the question the Lady with translucent skin had asked her popped along with the insane voices which battled on her mind.

She’d always replied with what the Taints had called her: Twice-Damned, Unbelonging, Homeless. But… who was _her_? Who was _Tyavain_?

“Answer my question, Schezemu the Unpredictable.” Again, Tyavain heard the command escaping from her own lips… She wanted it to stop, but… it was too strong and she could only watch…

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he bluntly replied her. The Baatezu laughed; the Tanar’ri snorted.

“The woman you travel with, slaughterer. Oh, don’t be surprised… we know who you truly are.”

He took a step back; thousands of words flooded Tyavain’s mind along with his gesture. They were calling him Mulhorandi, demon, _God_. A fugitive from the past and an avoider of future… They told her about a woman who stripped the word beautiful of its meaning – a half succubus, once a slave of his people… And they spoke of his and her hearts – the heart of an executioner and the heart of a deceiver, both intertwined together in a feeling they were not slated to ever come to know…

Her mouth began to move again. Rekat’s eyes widened; Tyavain realized she must’ve been saying something horrible, but she didn’t know what exactly, as the voices were speaking so loud now that they shut down every sound coming from the world around her.

She saw a woman and was taken aback by what she looked like, by the way her face was still so enthralling, even with that sneering frown upon it. The Taints began screaming and Tyavain knew she was still saying _something_ to the man, because he was shuddering while his widened eyes were still fixed on her.

Her mother came afterwards and the voices began wailing even louder.

Her head ached; Tyavain could’ve sworn there was someone sticking needles to it.

When she saw her father, everything went black.

 

 

 “Sand! You were gone all day. Careful, don’t step on Zhjaeve…”

 _Too late_. Firanis shut her eyes when the Githzerai woke up and muttered something.

Her room was small, but that only seemed to make it look cozy and, therefore, a favorite place for all her friends to camp during the day and for Neeshka, Elanee and Zhjaeve to rest during the night. It was not that she was complaining… Firanis was very glad that they were concerned over her, but well… they could try avoiding useless arguments once in a while, especially when Ilwyn was asleep.

 It’d been past ten in the evening when Sand had barged into her room, thrusting the double doors to the sides and making way too much noise than she could endure at this time. Ilwyn woke up and began sobbing – _loud_ – making it impossible for anyone else within those walls to remain slumbering. Well, except for Elanee. Out in the wilderness, she immediately woke up with pressing dangers but with, say, an owl’s whistle, she’d remain quiet – which was nothing compared to how she behaved when inside a house… then, the woman wouldn’t wake up for _anything_ in the world.

Firanis envied Elanee and that peace. She truly did.

“She’s got good lungs.” Neeshka yawned.

Firanis began cradling the child in her arms, the tip of her nose caressing the baby’s forehead. “What brings you here at this time, Sand?”

Sand opened his mouth, the tips of his fingers pressed together; it reminded Firanis of the Trial, where he’d done that _frequently_ to allegedly _earn_ time. “Remember the scrying I told you about?”

The aasimar nodded. “To find out who the girl was, right?”

“Yes. I already had my suspicions when you described her, so I risked a little something else and called her spirit.”

“You knew who she was all along? And you didn’t tell?” Firanis frowned, a hint of shock dancing on her voice; she brought Ilwyn closer to her and tickled the baby’s neck, causing her to giggle.

“In fact, I’m very much astonished as to _how_ you can’t remember her; we met her after Shandra died.”

Neeshka blinked several times. “The whacko girl who kept talking nonsense? It was _her_?”

“I remember her as well,” Zhjaeve stated, “Tyavain, wasn’t it? I recall her mother helped us during the siege, but Tyavain… she’s so young… I don’t _know_ how she could’ve made a call through the planes.”

There was a pause.

“Tyavain…” Firanis mused. “I… don’t remember her, just her voice.”

“Right, err…” Neeshka looked up, chewing on her bottom lip before continuing. “Like Sand said, she showed up after we returned from Jerro’s Haven and you… froze down the inn?”

Firanis blinked. Neeshka sighed in exasperation. “You _really_ don’t remember it?”

Firanis shook her head. “I recall that I did not want to go to Castle Never because,” her voice weakened to a choke, “I really felt like crying, but couldn’t do it in front of _everyone_. It’d only cause an unnecessary ruckus.”

Neeshka clapped her hands together. “Well, then, I’ll explain you what happened—”

“Please…” Sand’s comment was as exasperated as the rolling of his eyes.

“Stop it. We’ll only waste a bit of time, and,” she grunted, “it’s kind of annoying that she doesn’t remember it _and_ never bothered to ask us about it.”

The aasimar shrugged. “I never saw the girl there; I thought it’d just been a second of spacing out.”

“Well, it wasn’t.” Neeshka clicked her tongue. “Let’s see, we returned from Jerro’s Haven, and you kept ranting on and on about how could he had killed Shandra without even bothering to talk to her and—”

“Neeshka, get to the point,” Sand cut in.

The tiefling’s nose and forehead became wrinkled. “I _was_! I swear to you, Sand, I don’t know how you consider yourself a lawyer! You’re so impati—”

“ _Know_ that the baby will start crying if she doesn’t get any sleep soon,” Zhjaeve calmly declared. Firanis had to make an effort not to say _“Smart blackmail!”_ when Neeshka finally resumed to telling the story of what had happened six months ago.

_Firanis lifted the corners of her mouth as if it were a great effort. “I can’t go now, Sir Nevalle. I’ve just lost a friend, I haven’t slept in two days and-“_

_Nevalle interrupted her briskly. “It’s an order. You must come with me to Castle Never.”_

_The aasimar looked up at Nevalle, but it was not in a mandatory nor outraged way; she looked completely taken aback. “But I-” she started in a hoarse voice._

_“You’re to come with me to Castle Never, Firanis. It’s urgent.”_

_Firanis blinked and chilling aura formed in the room, branching out of Firanis and spreading, slowly freezing the walls of the Inn._

_“For the Gods…” Elanee whispered with a hand on her mouth. Nevalle’s eyes were bulging out of their sockets as he looked at Firanis… But she wasn’t moving. She kept staring, not even breathing, her hair slowly starting to become solid in the ends._

_“What’s wrong with her?” Neeshka asked. “She’s… she’s…” The tiefling wrapped her arms around herself. “She’s freezing everything!”_

_Getting to the boundaries of your curse? Firanis heard Auril’s glacial voice on the back of her head. Why, why, I never thought her death would affect you so much… She tried to move, but she couldn’t… She was stuck._

_The Ice was spreading slowly; Nevalle took a step back, unable to avert his gaze from Firanis’s frozen features, from pupils that had become of a blue so light that they almost seemed white. What was that? What was happening to the aasimar?_

_Outside, the rain fell._

_The Knight of the Nine felt a smooth, shy touch at his sleeved forearm, accompanied by a thin whisper. “Rain is Tears. Rain is what happens when Celestials cry. Rain is the consequence of a good heart’s grievance when it keeps being smothered.”_

_Tyavain’s weak voice the only audible sound in the Tavern. “Snow… Snow is what happens when the heart gets cold and decides to shut itself from feelings. Snow is frozen tears._

_“And, when her heart grows cold, so will everything around her.” It was a child, a mere child speaking, her own icy blue eyes also frozen on Firanis’s static figure. She tried to step in the aasimar’s direction, but for some reason, her feet gave in and she fell forward, into Nevalle’s suddenly extended arms; the girl gasped when the skin of his hands touched hers, her blue irises gradually reaching a purple color – and then red._

_“They’re telling me you’ve pushed her too hard… Want her to get over things with ease, because one who leads as many as she does cannot afford having emotions.” Her eyelids trembled, as did her voice. “You think she hasn’t got problems because she’s so… aloof?” She quirked an eyebrow up as if debating that word with someone else; seconds after, she shook her head. “No, not aloof... Warm. Gentle. Kind. Yes, you think she hasn’t got problems, but she does… And hers are worse than the ones you have.”_

_She turned her eyes to Bishop; there was no expression on her face, although there was something of a warning in the way she spoke. “And the only one who knows about them is a fool who refuses to admit the most obvious, blatant things, to himself.”_

_It seemed to take Bishop everything he had not to snap at the girl and break her neck. Instead, he gave her the most murderous look he could – and she did not waver. After he retreated his gaze from her and looked at Firanis’s frozen figure again, Tyavain stepped towards the aasimar, brushing a hand against one of the icy arms. “Don’t let it swallow you.” She paused and looked up, gently, while letting out a soft giggle. “I know. I’m sorry.”_

_Firanis’s hands twitched; she started dripping water and, once her body felt loose enough, she sank to her knees, hugging them with all her strength. And the girl… the girl fell back and she’d have most certainly hit the ground if Sir Nevalle’s reflexes weren’t so sharp._

_Someone entered the Inn. “Tyavain?” a female voice called out, shaken to the core. The girl’s exquisite blue eyes rolled up, and she smiled, tired. “One told me she needed help, mom… And she was… screeching so loud that I had to come.”_

_The woman’s sharp features grew worried but, nonetheless, she retrieved the smile he daughter was giving her. “I know. Let’s go get some rest now, shall we?”_

_Soon, Sir Nevalle’s arms were empty; the door closed and Firanis rose up, her reddened eyes obstinately glaring at him as if nothing had happened._

_“Fine, I’ll go.” Was all the aasimar said before darting towards the door._

“And then you left to Castle Never and left us all wondering what exactly had happened. I saw the girl again a couple of times, but,” Neeshka paused, taking a finger to her chin, “it was Ammon to whom she talked a lot… It made him look almost paternal and he was kind of happy – as happy as Jerro gets anyway - after their conversations. You’d never have guessed, huh?”

Funny… Firanis remembered refusing to go to the Castle at first, remembered the cold, remembered hearing a voice which was, at the same time, deep and acute, comforting and reprimanding, chaotic and orderly… But she didn’t remember seeing the girl nor feeling her touch upon her skin… Only a dark, giant, ever swirling vortex, ready to envelop her, to _consume_ her into nevermore…

Then that voice had called, saying she couldn’t let it swallow her; her cold-numbed mind had answered the girl by telling that it was growing and growing due to the sheer amount of emotions she had bottled up inside her because… because she hadn’t really had time to allow them to go.

And the voice had giggled, but it hadn’t been out of malice; it was a kind laugh meant to lift her mood. She told her that she knew and that she was _sorry_.

Just like wings fluttering, the vortex broke down, and all that remained there was the cold and the understanding that her emotions would have to be stuck in her heart for a little while longer, until she could finally have time to understand and release them all.

“That’s why he _knew_ she called you by your true name,” Zhjaeve pointed out, braking off Firanis’s thoughts. “He talked _a lot_ to the girl. But then, why did she not use it before?”

“The higher the knowledge you seek, the higher the cost.” Sand breathed in, sharply. “The girl paid that debt with her very own sanity.”

“Now that you mention it,” Firanis’s voice was a quiet whisper as her right index finger caressed Ilwyn’s cheeks, “when I was asking who she was, she replied by saying that it did not matter and that…” the aasimar swallowed, the pain she’d felt while back in Fury’s Heart reviving on her limbs and the ever present _cold_ became even more pronounced. “That she could reach me there because it was a place of fury, madness and division.”

“Well, probably. If you’d talked to her for more than five minutes, you’d clearly understand she was _mad_ and _divided_ ,” Sand stated.

“Or maybe it was you who couldn’t hold a decent conversation with her.”

Ammon Jerro stepped into the room, speaking with a voice strung with fatigue and despair. “It’s amazing that you can’t you keep the kid quiet for a whole night, Firanis. I hear her cries two blocks away from here.”

“Well, you’re lucky you don’t have long hair,” Firanis shot back; Ilwyn’s wide brown eyes looked at her and her tiny hand reached upwards. The aasimar gave her free index finger, which the girl held tightly. “It’s good you woke up, though. We were talking about you.”

Jerro raised an eyebrow. “On what purpose? Tyavain?”

Firanis nodded. “Sand has just confirmed it was her who came to me in Fury’s Heart, but…” she half-closed her eyes and moved them to Sand’s now yawning figure, “I now recall that, back then, she wasn’t really a girl, she… changed into a woman.”

Sand opened his mouth to reply, but Jerro didn’t give him the chance. “Of course she did,” said the warlock. “Or do you think she has the spirit of a _child_?”

“For starters, Jerro, she _is_ a kid and she did a lot of kiddy stuff when I saw her, so—” Neeshka began, only to have the warlock interrupt her as well.

“Her body is still the one of a child, so she _can_ and may _want_ to do childish things. But deep inside, she is not one. Not even close.” Firanis could almost swear Ammon was angry at Neeshka for making those assumptions, because he was nearly spitting at the tiefling.

Before Neeshka could snap out and throw him some angry retort, Firanis decided she’d better douse the fire. “What did you talk to her about, Ammon?”

Neeshka inhaled in indignation; Ammon moved his yellow eyes to Firanis and she could see he was trying to calm down in order to respond her.

After a while, Jerro spoke, “You stayed a few days inside the Keep after your promotion, and we very rarely saw you. Since I’d noticed and sometimes even _heard_ what you were doing locked up in your room,” Jerro exhaled, the halt in his speech short enough for Firanis’s cheeks to blush to a color which rivaled her hair’s; she’d never known Ammon was that much of a light sleeper until three nights ago, when he’d come complaining about Ilwyn’s cries in the middle of the night – and, in the process, had also told her why he’d _insisted_ so much on her to change him into the room which was the farthest away from hers when they’d been at the Keep.  “Now, I wasn’t really worried about your well being, like the druidess was, nor busy trying to find out where you kept the stash from the latest travels, like the tiefling.” He stopped “But I was rather curious about the girl and what she’d done at the Inn, so when I saw her, I asked her about it. And you know which was the first thing the girl told me?”

No one replied.

“ _Mister Jerro, do you know that, in the end, the only shadow that remains is the one we have in own souls?_ , was it. I was confused at first and when we were both silent, staring at each other, I felt the ground under my feet _cringe_ and the suddenly surged wind howling and I saw her change and grow as I diminished and became younger. _The Darkness_ , she whispered, _is growing. Hers and yours._ ”

Ammon Jerro’s pale eyes met Firanis. “You’ve seen her like that as well. She told me it was because sometimes, when pushed too hard, she couldn’t get a hang on herself and her soul – _Tyavain’s_ soul – fled the body, in hopes to have a moment of rest from the ever-running war. But it can’t be gone for long, or else when it returns, everything will be worse, because both Taints would have been fighting to get a hold of the shell that is her body.

“When I came to my senses, we were back in the Keep, and she was a child again, staring at me, unmoving… and I was fascinated with her power after that.”

“Still,” Neeshka coughed, “her father is a tiefling, but her mother is a pure elf. How can the girl feel both sides of the Blood War? I’ve never been to the Lower Planes, but in Faerûn I couldn’t fell anything calling. Well,” the tiefling gave her characteristic nervous laugh, “except when you activate weird wards, like Garius did… then it gets nasty, I’m telling you.”

“Her mother is part erinyes,” Sand explained, his tone dryly sarcastic. “I remember hearing the ruckus about it in Neverwinter, when Tyavain was born and well, had a tail. You’d think it’s not true, but having a noble of elven blood and a tiefling together isn’t all that good looking; now imagine the scandal when it comes to surface that besides that, Amaya’s your mother was not only part erinyes, but also a priestess of Bhaal _and_ that her father had an affair with someone, thus creating a bastard child who, by the way, is no other than a fugitive of Neverwinter because, after saving the disgraced city from the Lizard Queen, she decided to strip Lord Nasher from his spymaster and…” the moon elf smirked, apparently enjoying the tale he was telling. “It was dirty laundry done in public… Really fun to watch all those nobles gossip and come to your shop for potions of protection against demons and devils and begging you to put enchantments in their homes.”

“And _I_ blabber and gossip…” Neeshka sighed, rolling her eyes.

Sand snorted at her. “You only say that because you don’t know how much fun it was.”

Again, Neeshka opened her mouth and, again, Firanis decided it was time to avoid another yet argument from rising, but she didn’t make it in time. Soon, all she heard were ironical sentences and brisk remarks about strange hobbies and twisted notions, coming and going between the moon elf and the tiefling.

Firanis could see the exasperated look on Ammon Jerro’s wrinkled face and the hopelessness which strongly adorned Zhjaeve’s thin features as she brought a hand to her temples and shook her head.

She’d seen the girl, Tyavain, grow physically in front of her own eyes, and she’d seen the profound knowledge which was embedded on every single aspect of the girl’s frame and voice and gestures. Tyavain was possibly one of those people who would never know the meaning of _childhood_ because her very being was as old as the Blood Wars.

Sand and Neeshka, however, were very different from that. Indeed, Sand was very intelligent, but he couldn’t help the dry and witty comments about _anything_ and that sometimes made him look like a kid who thinks he is way too smart for the people around him. Maybe that was what made him nice company once in a while, in a very sadistic way – that and the fact that, when alone with him, Firanis could actually have nice and sane conversations… and Sand, despite all his faults, had a way with words from which she’d learned _a lot_ \- at least enough to get out from some uncomfortable situations such as murder accusations and fights with ogres.

As for Neeshka, the only aspect in which Firanis considered the tiefling to be an adult was when she talked about the things she’d endured in the past just because she had horns and a tail, but as for the rest… an utter child. And while it _could_ be annoying sometimes, it was also refreshing because… someone had to be that way; someone had to be light-hearted.

That was why Firanis spent some time with both Neeshka and Grobnar after the battles… so the world would seem less gloomy.

Now that she thought about it… when everything started, _she_ , herself, had been very childish and naïve. And innocent. Yes, above it all, she’d been innocent. But if Neeshka had gone through the same things she had, why hadn’t Firanis been able to retain those characteristics? Why had she changed?

 _You changed because you were forced into growing._ A little voice inside her mind explained. _You had to grow so they’d be left intact. It was_ your _sacrifice for_ them _, Firanis._

Sand and Neeshka were still bickering at each other under her, Ammon’s and Zhjaeve’s miserable sleepy gazes. The aasimar sighed, knowing that, for _their_ personalities to remain the way she loved them, she’d sacrificed, along with her innocence, many nights – and days - of needed rest.

“Did you get your name from bringing sand home every time you went to wash your clothes in the river to catch up with the latest scandals?”

“At least I wash my clothes and don’t keep stealing new ones!”

“Yes, I tried to go to your shop to get a spell against clothing corrosion, but alas, your spells _never_ work!”

“They would if you _paid_ for them.”

“I’m telling you…”

The aasimar had to smile… Her sacrifice? It’d been worth it.

 

 

The smooth surface of the brush glided through her skin.

First, there was the whirl, and the tendrils snaking out of its edges. From its center, a sentence was spun: the sentence which mandated her thoughts, her actions, her _life_.

They lowered her clothing until it reached her knees and the brush swooshed across her buttocks. The black wings… wings once so white, now tainted by darkness and sorrow - her Lord’s wings.

From her left elbow to the shoulder of the same side, there were circles, intricately connected to each other in a way so that when you looked at them, they’d seem neverending… an _Infinity_.

They kept on painting, moving to her wrists, where the chains of flesh began, twisting and turning around the length of her arms and collarbone, and waist and hips and back - all of her upper body. The Chains which were above all the other marks as if wanting to press them harder against her… Chains which tied her to _him_ , to the dark sun, to infinity…

Time passed and they told her the paintings were dry. She felt the now ink-covered marks with her fingers, the black color starkly contrasting with her pale, white skin… At least now no one would notice that, before the ink, there had only been scars left by a poisonous knife…

“I told you not to do that, Yarija,” his deep, very hoarse voice criticized; his face was distorted in sneer, but that didn’t make his features any less handsome.

Yarija’s full lips were naturally twisted down; she somehow straightened them in a purse. “The scars are still there, my Lord Shemal,” stated she.

“But you sullied my work of art with that ink.” He approached her; it took Yarija everything to keep her expression steady and her body from stepping away from him. “I wonder what would happen if I decided to cut the inked skin all over again to have it back to normal?”

His tone was so sweet, and his face so close to hers… it sent shivers down Yarija’s spine because she knew that if he felt like it, she’d have to submit and all the pain would undoubtedly be inflicted upon her a thousand times more prominently than before.

“No words, Yarija?” Shemal asked, caressing her cheek in an almost loving manner; she couldn’t hold her disgust then and slapped it away, tasting the vile bile taste on her tongue.

Shemal _tsked_ before his fist came colliding against her face so hard that she fell onto the ground, followed by a side kick to the stomach that almost tore her asunder. “You’re lucky I’ve got work for you, else you could be sure I’d carry out that little suggestion.”

Yarija breathed in through her nose so that she’d avoid opening her mouth; it was filled with newly surged blood, but she couldn’t let Shemal see it… Whenever he saw blood, he grew even more vicious and the temper he kept so tightly leashed would break free and… it’d be destruction incarnate.

He roughly grabbed her chin and forced her up, bringing her face to close to his that Yarija could smell the intoxicating smell of his breath; she didn’t know how so many women found it to be sultry… to her, it was as nauseous as rotten fish.

“We need you to go to Luskan and make sure the Hosttowers lose their power. The regimen has failed once… guarantee to the people it will happen again and that _we_ are the only stable source of power,” he hissed. “Brian will be there, as well as Prarg. I don’t need to remind you what will happen if you fail.”

He dropped her and left the room in a swagger; as soon as he was out of sight, Yarija ran to a corner and bent down, puking out the blood on her stomach. Her mouth trembled at the reminder of his breath, at the still lingering sensation of his skin on hers…

Hatred was not a strong enough expression to describe her feelings towards the second man of the Zhentarim. He claimed to have saved her, he claimed to be her hope, her tie to life… how could he? How could he say such things when he’d marked her body with a blade to _remind_ her she was tied to him?

A smirk crossed her black lips. Normally, she would find a way around his orders, but at least, by sending her to Luskan, he was throwing her to a place _away_ from him. This time around, she would gladly obey.

She left to the exit and went to her room, where there were no mirrors nor anything made of glass or metal or white porcelain. Days after, she left to Luskan with an escort of four soldiers wearing armor so shiny and polished that she, no matter where she looked, would always see herself in it, as they surrounded her all the way.

_So this is Shemal’s way to have me remember the stains he left on my skin…_

The intricate circles on her left upper arm caught her attention… Indeed, she was tied to Shemal and, though that, tied to Infinity…

There could be no crueler fate for anyone.

 

 

Upon the arrival of the thief and the assassin, Yartar had been enveloped in mist, as if trying to cloud its citizens of the corruption which was breeding inside it.

Bishop hated the mist for two reasons; first, one could never see anything clearly; second, the mist reminded him of someone he was still trying to forget.

It was strange, though, because many people would never associate Firanis with the mists… A bright ray of hope, as he’d sarcastically said once, maybe, but _never_ the mist; heroes were usually not reminiscent of something so ethereal, moist and boring.

The ranger grunted and looked at his reflex on the window’s glass. “Aren’t you tired of trying to bring that subject up when you have the chance?” he asked it, as scornful as he could manage.

 _No,_ something replied, _Because her memory is the only thing which keeps you mentally stable enough to keep on living._

Bishop chuckled, shaking his head. He’d gotten so used to her company that being alone now felt… Maddening; for the Gods, he was talking to his reflection! How degrading could that be?

_“It might seem bizarre but I think I’ve heard your voice before,” she admitted. “As well as the song you were humming just before I came in. Do you always do that when you’re with a hangover?”_

_“Oh, really?” his tone was mocking, shunning. “Where?”_

_“Redfallow’s Watch. My father took me once there, when he went there to sell furs.”_

_He pierced her with his gaze and she retrieved the attention by gently lifting the corners of her lips in a smile that her grey-blue eyes reflected. “It’s called_ The Mist Song _, is it not?”_

_He did not reply._

_She stepped forward to sit next to him. “I thought it was really beautiful back then. And the boy I heard singing it had the most exquisite voice… I always thought he’d become a bard someday.”_

Bishop shook his head fiercely, dusting off her voice from the back of his mind… Distraction… he needed something else to think to distract himself from her… Like the two who had arrived today… yes, those two… There had been something _off_ about them, he could swear, but he couldn’t quite put the finger on what it was exactly – yet.

 _Now wait a moment…_ There were silhouettes near the fountain, barely seen. Bishop opened his window quietly, and tried to listen to their voices. When he identified them, he had to reckon that those two were not, in any way, good people.

Aniel and Rekat. Hidden in the mist. Alone.

“What did she do?” Bishop heard Aniel’s sultry voice asking.

“I don’t know, she just…” Rekat hesitated, “I just… started remembering my whole life and—”

Someone knocked on his door. Bishop closed the window and walked to it; upon sliding it open, he wrinkled his nose at the sight of a servant.

“Mistress Kalyt wants to see you,” she said, bowing and darting off almost immediately. Bishop sighed and left the room, closing the door behind him.

 

 

_“I…” she stuttered. “I want to… go back and let the mist envelop me.”_

_“Why?”_

_She smiled. “So I can rip the sky out of my entrails.”_

_He blinked. “You_ what _?”_

 _“It’s… painful, Bishop. These traces of—” she bit her tongue as if she’d said something she shouldn’t have, but masked her mistake before he could ask anything about it, “they’re painful and_ vast _, like the sky. I feel like I’m dying, because of this twinge in my stomach and I don’t know why.”_

_He approached her; she smelled of lilies and… something sweeter he couldn’t recognize. “You’re in pain and you don’t know why?”_

_She nodded. “It’s like I’m crumbling, and have nowhere to hold on to. Maybe… maybe if I leave pieces of myself intact in the mist now, I’ll be able to get them back someday, as whole as I left them.” She closed the distance between them and grabbed his hand in one of hers. “I’ve been meaning to ask you this, Bishop,” she kissed the knots of this hand and the inside of his wrist before entwining the fingers in her own; her free hand traveled to his face, caressing the cheek, and her lips grazed his for moments before she fully covered his mouth with her own._

_For a reason, she was different from other women… No one else but her had made him shiver with light kisses, much less bring him to the verge of collapsing with the real ones._

_She retreated, and asked. “Will you sing for me again?”_

“Oh, shut up!” Bishop commanded. And the memories were buried again, and the voice spoke no more.

 


	6. Chant: Time, Regrets, Voids

**_Chant_ **

****

_“You’re still playing this game?” the newcomer asked, wondered. “I thought you’d grown tired of it after that puppet, the King of Shadow’s died.” She tilted a head to the side and took a finger to her chin. “Oh? You have different pieces now.”_

_“Why are you here?” he asked._

_The newcomer giggled. “You know why: I’m an observer. I watch everything so it can be recounted to the world countless times.”_

_“Then why don’t tell your tale often?” the woman hissed through perfectly white teeth. “Is it not a story of love, hardship and adventure in which good triumphed? It’s got all the markings grand tales do; why keep your mouth shut about it?”_

_The newcomer looked down, her voice a nearly silent whisper, “Because tales are not supposed to be told by their protagonists.”_

**Six**

_Time_

_Regrets_

_Voids_

 

It’d been two weeks since Sand had come into her room, telling her the details his scrying; the morning after their heated discussion on that topic (and various others, thanks to Sand and Neeshka’s inability to give up on an argument), she’d been visited by a Cleric she’d never laid eyes on, who’d come to say that the moon elf would go unpunished for his daring stunts with the Holy Basin, as Lady Eleste seemed to have seen it as a result of a prophecy she’d had. “No hard feelings”, had been the gist of the conversation between her and Senim. So now, as she pushed open the giant mirrored glass door, Firanis couldn’t think of a plausible reason for her to be requested at Savras’s Temple.

Upon her entrance, she was greeted by a gently smiling female deva, who bowed to her. “Welcome, Lady Firanis,” she said. “Lady Eleste is awaiting you. Please follow me.”

The deva guided Firanis through corridors of blue stained glass – which, with the sun’s light colliding against them made the temple look like an underwater building; the columns sustaining the ceiling were of water flowing upwards and all the doors around them were richly decorated and of a sheer variety of colors; however, the one Firanis was led to was a single, small one which, compared to the ones they’d passed by, was far too simplistic, with no pictures engraved on it – it wasn’t even painted. But upon approaching it, the aasimar noticed that the white light searing through its clear, unpolluted surface contrasted with the multi-colored ones that came from the other doors.

 _It is like walking into an abyss of light_ , Firanis thought. The deva knocked on the door – it had a resonating sound, similar to a crystal glass’s – but the sound was nowhere close to beautiful when compared to the liquid, flowing voice which said “Come in,” and that very same voice paled in comparison to the image of its proprietor.

Firanis knew it wasn’t particularly polite to gasp when you meet someone for the first time; Daeghun had imbued that view into her mind and had made sure her expression would keep neutral when examining someone “ _It will make both of us look like fools, child. And you don’t want_ anyone _to know they have surprised you,_ ” he’d said and, although it had taken her a few years to understand, she’d got the meaning of such words.

And now, that whole perception was gone and she was doing nothing but gawping at the woman standing in front of her, clad in loose, yet elegant white robes which seemed to flow and dance happily as they fell around her well-proportioned figure, the neckline high enough to curiously cover most of the generous cleavage, but low enough to let the base of her four white-feathered curved wings free of any restraints.

As they moved, the woman’s lips reminded Firanis of light pink rose buttons laid on white organza fabric. “Good morning, Firanis,” the woman greeted, bowing down her head.

Firanis stuttered before she managed a reply, “Good morning, my Lady.”

One of the corners of the woman’s round lips curved upwards, the rest of the features of her face slowly twisting until they were perfectly in agreement with that delicate smile; those features, they were so _white_ … she could even see the veins from where she was standing, but while it would look creepy or subduing to most people’s beauty, it only increased this woman’s, as they somehow made the transparency of her skin more obvious, thus making her face so painstakingly _harmonic_ that looking at it was like beholding an orchestra performing in a perfect unison…

“Do you know who I am?” the woman asked.

She had a feeling she did, but from Sand’s descriptions, she’d always thought the woman would look _different_ … more pampered and snobbish maybe, and not this graceful, soft-looking, translucent being she saw in front of her.

It was like looking at limpid water, ever coursing, free from everything which contaminated the world.

“You’re Lady Eleste.” Firanis smiled as she replied the woman. “Savras’s Oracle.”

Eleste nodded at her and beckoned the aasimar to come forward.

“I must thank you for letting Sand using… the basin,” Firanis bluntly spurted out, the air on her lungs becoming heavy, thicker. “It was important so we could… have a better… understanding of… what happened.”

Eleste’s features twisted in a sneer, currents of water blown by a fierce wind. “Your friend is lucky my God had already anticipated this little accident – lest I would not be here now.” She shook her head; almost all of her hair was held up in a tight, strict bun, but some of it fell in the front, scrambling free and waving around her face with the movement, similar to the way shy sun rays licked Empyrea’s mountain lake in a quiet evening. And just like the lake, her expression became serene and pure again when she began speaking again. “We’re not here to dwell on that, though.”

Firanis felt thoroughly watched as Eleste’s very light blue eyes scanned her from top to bottom, but she really couldn’t complain when she’d been gaping at the woman for a while just minutes ago.

“You look healthy now,” the solar observed.

“I am, thanks to the efforts of the people here.”

“And the child?”

“She’s… fine. The Clerics say that she’s gaining weigh properly, even though she was premature, thanks for asking.”

A shade of a smirk crossed Eleste’s round lips. Guerryn’s granddaughter was a polite little thing and maybe that was why he’d grown to be so attached to her: you’d never have guessed she was related to that son of his.

“That is good to know,” the solar skirted the table where her basin had once stood. “We had planned on sending you back to Toril after you and the child were recovered – but as the girl…” Eleste stopped, chewing the name on her tongue before saying it aloud, “Tyavain warned and as we confirmed, we can’t. All the extraplanar paths which lead to your home are smothered in chaos - no doubt thanks to you.”

“I don’t understand—”

“The child is fine but _you_ can’t fully heal here,” Eleste briskly spat, her beautiful face now close to ugly due to the frown she was giving Firanis. The aasimar widened her eyes at Eleste’s sudden change of attitude, causing the other woman to exhale deeply. “I am sorry. I’ve been on edge ever since your friend wreaked havoc in this room. There were… certain questions to which I was not expecting an answer.”

Firanis thought it was best not to ask which questions and if she’d ever doubted that celestials were incapable of anger or temper losses, she did so no longer.

Appearances could be so deceiving indeed.

“As I was saying,” Eleste went on, her tone now returning to the deep, melodic reverberation it’d been in the beginning, “You cannot heal here; your very soul doesn’t allow you to.”

Firanis blinked. “My… soul?”

“Yes. Your soul is tied to a great measure of chaos, which is why you had those warlock powers before this whole ordeal and can’t use them now.” Eleste walked away, to an armoire, which she opened to scuffle through the objects inside. “All along, every since you arrived here, those powers have been filling a void, but…” she grabbed something but didn’t turn, looking at the aasimar sideways instead. “The fountain of power is seeping; it’s so endless, Firanis, that not even _that_ emptiness you have inside is able to consume it. It will take time, though, and this place is not the… adequate one for it to go faster.”

As Eleste talked, Firanis had felt all the color draining from her cheeks; where was the woman getting at? Where would she be asking her to go with her child and companions? Or even worse… would she be asking her to leave _without_ them? The very thought was strong enough for Firanis to feel scared… she could not part with any them. She’d undoubtedly shatter again, and get lost in the cold again and… She simply _couldn’t_ imagine life without them anymore.

The solar scrutinized her with those unnervingly clear eyes. “You and everyone who came with you will be moved to Arborea,” she informed, relieving the aasimar almost instantly. “But that’s not all.”

Firanis noticed the solar was holding a large, blue-hued crystal ball and a silver three legged support in her hands. “Long before you left West Harbor to pursue its attackers, I had a vision of you, staggering through a portal on the brink of death; I have been watching you ever since.”

“How long, exactly?” Firanis questioned, eyebrows raised.

Eleste set the tripod on the table and the orb on its claws and replied, her voice struck with something similar to a soft, regretting nostalgia, “Twenty one years.”

The aasimar’s eyes widened. “But that’s… since my mother died.”

“True.” Eleste shrugged. “Not that I even fathomed why I had that vision at the time… Sure, I knew you’d leave a mark in history – there was a piece of a silver sword inside you, after all – but I couldn’t perceive how big its dimension would be.”

“And now you can?”

“I know it’s greater than I thought it would be,” Eleste clarified, caressing the sphere with a light, yet confident touch. “Saving the Sword Coast is not something as great as you think when you compare it to the length of the Multiverse… Initially, I’d believed they’d end there, your heroic acts… But I had yet another vision after that, when you _really_ came into Empyrea and it proved that I was wrong.”

Firanis was going to ask her _why_ they were having this talk, but she was silenced by the sudden nearly-blinding light that came out of the sphere when Eleste hit the tip of her index fingers against it thrice. “Everything is so much more than what it seems to be, Firanis.” The solar’s voice pierced though the light, but it sounded as if it nearly was choking. “You seemed you’d only be another pawn in this game, with all the pieces do perfectly lined, all the strategies so faultlessly thought.”

The white light slowly vanished and Firanis saw the familiar frozen landscapes in front of her eyes, the wheezing wind cutting her skin, the cold snow chilling her feet. “Your power came when your mother let out a plea without a significant destination; she just wanted it _heard_ and what she got with that was the help of a God who felt bored enough to meddle so closely with the affairs of mortals.” In front of her, Eleste moistened her lips with her tongue, thoughtfully. “You never really felt heat until you did something which you felt, would send you to the depths of Hell.” There was no more snow, but a scorching, blazing desert and the thin sand burning her feet. Firanis screamed; she wasn’t supposed to be feeling _this_ hot.

Eleste spoke again and it was like soothing rain, easing the immense heat of the desert. “Don’t worry; you don’t belong there. Someone else does, though, which is why this was in the vision.”

“Someone… else?” Firanis rubbed her throat, hoping the dryness would disappear; it didn’t.

“Yes. A big war will dawn and it’ll be that someone else who will spawn it.” Eleste caressed the surface of the sphere once again, whispering, “When you’re tied to the coldness of an eternal winter of life, he belongs to the summers of Hell, which burn everything at their passage.”

“ _He_?”

Eleste did not reply; the desert was gone and trees grew from its ground, thus creating a rich jungle. “Another is from the springs of envy and delusions… Such cruelty in her.” The last sentence had sounded more like a musing than a statement; the jungle was replaced by a sea of torments, the waves kissing Firanis’s feet… her eyes bulged out when she noticed the waters were, rising higher and higher; the aasimar fought, but she couldn’t move and soon she was _drowning_ in the dark sea…

“The sea of despair… the last one is from there… The last one is the autumn of solitude.” The solar’s voice came out distorted, bubbling through the water filling the room. “Do you get it, Firanis? Each and every one of you is from a place, from a part of the year.”

Firanis opened her mouth; how could Eleste talk? She couldn’t even _breathe_ and soon she would die if this didn’t end. Her eyes met the solar’s, which, under the dark water looked like white milk soiled by a black dot of dirt.

Air invaded her lungs and a variety of landscapes flashed before her eyes. “The others are the secondary ones, tied the first four either by blood, by feelings, by bindings in the flesh or in the mind… In the end, the consequences will be felt everywhere from the Upper,” Empyrea was in the room, the perfect buildings small toys under Firanis’s feet, “to the Lower.”

Screams. Agony. Death. Unbearable sensations overcame the aasimar and she felt a whip lash out against her skin as she fell into an endless abyss… Always falling and falling as the weight of something tied to her dragged her further down without any resistance.

Then, suddenly, it stopped and she was standing again in the room of glass walls and floor, with the tranquil, serene, ever-transparent Eleste staring patiently at her as if she’d been completely expecting her to fall in the end.

Firanis took a while to straighten herself, try to make sense of what she’d just been told and shown but her efforts were fruitless. “What… was that?” she asked.

“My visions, unrestrained; the basin served to _contain_ the power. With it gone… you’ve experienced the lengths my visions can achieve.” The solar sadly whispered. “I’m sorry if you got uncomfortable, but you _needed_ to see this before you go to Arborea; you need to understand that you need to improve far beyond your current level.”

Firanis frowned. “I’m like this because of events you’re well aware of—”

“You think you’re ready to face the new challenges?” Eleste asked.

“Well, I’m clumsy in hand-to-hand combat and without my warlock powers I’m pretty much useless, but—”

“You’re so thin that you won’t even make a good enough arrow bait, Firanis.” Eleste cut her off with a hiss. “And _clumsy_ is an actual euphemism of what you are: a complete disaster.”

Firanis opened her mouth to protest, but decided it was not worth it; you can’t fight the truth after all.

“You will hopefully feel your warlock powers flowing once again once you’re out of here and you will have one of us to help you train with that silver sword you carried so you’ll be better prepared than you were when you left your home. Understand that your role is far from over – no, cross that – your part in this play has barely begun and you’re in the very core of the War which is already building.”

“Wait.” Firanis shook her head. “I’m supposed to fight a war? _Another_ war?” She chuckled dryly in disbelief. “Why? I don’t want to, I just…” Her voice trailed off and she moved her eyes onto the ground.

“You just want to go home and raise your child in a nice, quiet place.” Eleste completed, blinking as though she’d been echoing something she’d said long ago. “I understand that you feel that way but you’re in the center of the war which will dawn; you’re the Queen and Queens don’t abandon their people.”

“I’m not a Queen.” Firanis stated.

“Yes you are; at least in this particular game.” Eleste moved her right hand in a cutting sideways motion and Firanis she looked down and the whole floor was made of squares and she was surrounded by alabaster statues of… her friends!

 _No, not statues… pieces_ , her mind registered. _Everyone who survived Merdelain is here and,_ she turned, _Sir Nevalle and Torio and the girl… no, she’s not a girl here, she’s a woman… Tyavain_. In one of the corners was a woman with long, straight black hair, a longbow on her hand. _I recognize this woman as well… she was with us during the siege; and she and the woman on the other edge have this same… challenging way about them and their eyes are so similar…_ Firanis took a hand to her chin, pensively. Hadn’t Amaya told her she would be meeting her husband and child in Amn, where her sister lived?

Only one figure was a complete mystery to her and that was the tall, dark skinned muscled man standing beside Tyavain’s piece; she’d never seen him, not even once in her life.

She turned; the pieces shimmered, but did not go away. Slowly, she walked to where the black stood; none of the faces were familiar, except for the Queen and the King’s, but she did not reckon where she knew them from. He was breathtakingly beautiful, in an almost indescribable way; she, too, was attractive, but something in her invoked an aura of fear and mistrust that was not present in the King.

She noticed, too, that he had flames around him and she, withered rose buttons.

So that was what Eleste had meant… _Summers of Hell and springs of envy and delusion…_

Firanis tried to gaze into the black again, but they were pulled away from her, their faces and stances were now blurred, rippling… _Wait a moment… why’s there a grey piece in the middle of the black? Who is,_ She sprinted towards it, but that part of the tray didn’t seem to get any closer, no matter how hard she tried to approach it; she kept running and running, and her heart started beating faster until her chest seemed too small to hold it and she had to stop.

When she looked at the black pieces again, mist enveloped them and only then, for a single moment, did the Grey’s face become clear before everything but the pain that vision had aroused in her went away.

 _Just what are you doing there, Bishop?_ Firanis asked herself, her face still shaped with disbelief and confusion.

“When I first had this vision, your piece’s features were like the ones you have now and for the exact same reason: you were _seeing_ him.” She had? Eleste’s cool, matter-of-fact statements only added weigh to her already heavy shoulders.

“What did that mean?” the aasimar asked, her voice quivering as much as her heart.

 “Everything.” Eleste approached her. “You’re distraught. You shouldn’t be; not when you have a child which will be a constant reminder of the face you’ve just seen.”

Firanis lifted her grey-blue eyes to the solar’s. Had the woman just criticized her? Did she think she had the right to because she was a solar? If so, then Sand was right and beneath that calm, beautiful shell of skin laid a bitter, hateful woman most people didn’t get to know.

The aasimar winkled her nose. “How do you even _dare_ to call my child a mere _reminder_ of him? What do you know of what Ilwyn _truly_ means to me?” she hoarsely shouted. “Do you think it hurts to remember him because of _what_? Because I’m just another love-sick puppy girl who fell for the looks and ended up betrayed? You said you watched me; then you should have seen that I knew all along in which I was getting into! What could _you_ know of this pain? What do you know of loss and sadness when you live in a place of harmony and perfection?”

“Are you so presumptuous to the point of believing what happened to you was unique?” Eleste spat, interrupting her. “What I saw when I observed you, I’d seen a thousand times before; I know the nature of your feelings, Firanis and I _do_ understand of the pain you’re feeling. Don’t be so close-minded as to even _fathom_ that you’re the only one who’s suffered and who’s made sacrifices. We all did and we all have.” She stopped to breathe in, calming herself down; Firanis’s frown deepened and she crossed her arms over her chest. “But it was not to discuss that that I’ve asked for you here; it was for you to understand _why_. There are the springs of envy, the summers of Hell, the autumn of solitude—”

“And the winter of life,” Firanis bluntly acknowledged. “I’m from the end of the second month… and from the North – the last part.”

Eleste nodded. “Yes; the last part of the everlasting circle. You got it quickly. I’m surprised,” Eleste admitted. “It took me three months to figure it out myself and I only did it when you woke up… I only did it because my Lord Savras knew that the vision would distress me as well and that I’d need the time between then and now to fully be able to… come to terms with it.”

Firanis swayed her hips to one side and tried to read the solar’s expression; her rose-button mouth was twisted down and her eyelids were ajar as she stared off into the sphere below her… there was an aura of sadness about her, but it was… contained and unaccepted, as if it’d been there for a long time and only now Eleste had allowed herself to feel it. “You’ve been betrayed as well,” Firanis softly mused, “haven’t you? Someone you loved dearly betrayed you; at first, you didn’t want to believe it, so you kept your feelings aside so that you wouldn’t be disturbed. But they caught up on you and now you know that all you can do to the person you love is to let them go, even…” her voice was choked and for moments, Firanis could not pronounce a word, “even if it means going against the will of everyone else.” The aasimar felt tears sting her eyes again. Gods, it was so much like a mirror that it hurt… A mirror of what had happened in Merdelain, a mirror of disgraceful events, a mirror of… herself.

The solar smiled and all strings of resentment towards her waned from Firanis’s mind. Eleste wasn’t bitter; she just… was wallowing in her own sadness and had never truly realized it. “Maybe. You should go prepare now, Firanis; your grandfather will take you to Arborea at sunset.”

Firanis bowed down and muttered a “Thank you” before turning to leave.

“Firanis Hlaetlarn,” Eleste whispered upon watching the aasimar close the door, “when someone manages to tear your ideals asunder and strips you from all the superficial layers of love and pleasantness… you truly become your father’s daughter.”

 

 

One night, he’d woken up at the incessant sound of high-pitched screams and, for Mask, he _needed_ to sleep. Traveling and guarding Aniel was no easy task – she got harassed often and, while she was very good at countering advances (the last men were sure to never spawn progeny again), sometimes it was too much for her to handle alone; the other part which made things difficult for him was the fact that they were forced by their employers to share a room. It’d seem simple at first, but as luck would have it, most Inns they came across were out of rooms with _separate_ beds, thus forcing them to sleep together.

He’d never thought that would be a problem; he’d seen her naked several times already – when she’d been requested to seduce some of the nobles for them to rob their houses and when he’d taken her to Vasjra, to cite some examples. Besides, Rekat had always considered himself a controlled man; the desires of the flesh had never roamed free through his body without the consent of his brain. But truth be told, Aniel was unlike any other woman he’d ever encountered and different from any his body had ever felt; thus, whenever he woke up with her curled up against him, his whole being seemed to respond to such closeness. Then he had to get up, relieve himself in the loneliest way he could and, to prevent the same thing to happen again, either sleep on the floor or not sleep at all.

 And there’d been a lot of nights like that… Which made the rare nights of rest welcome and appreciated; thus, to have them violated by someone’s wails was absolutely unacceptable.

But the girl… there had been blood everywhere around her, and black feathered wings drenched in the viscous red liquid protruding out of the girl’s back. He could care less about it as long as she remained quiet in all her suffering, so he’d grabbed her wrist and ordered her to be silent.

She’d looked up; her icy blue eyes were very wide, as if she was confused about something. Rekat had shaken her, and _blood_ began staining the blue, swirling through it until it consumed the lighter color. He then realized that the very air around them seemed to have been quieted, shushed, immobilized…

Her lips moved and a twisted voice – different from the one which had been screaming – came out of them, the sentences it said separated in three: one composed by his full name; other asking where was the succubus; what had been said in the middle he could _not_ remember… it was as if the memory had been ripped from his mind, leaving a blank hole filled with mixed whispers and chants.

No, Rekat did not know what the girl had said… but it’d grasped his heart, body and soul and… it had started to pull him, to _force_ him into doing what she wanted. But she’d only asked him about a succubus and he knew _none_. At least at the time he thought he didn’t.

Rekat had gasped, but somehow had managed to ask her who she was. The strange voice died and the red on her eyes _shivered_ , but it was only for moments, because she spoke again, demanding an answer from him, returning to use those strange struggling whispers that he could not make out… When Rekat said he did not know, she’d snorted, the pretty thin face distorted in a derisive victorious sneer.

_“The woman you travel with, slaughterer. Oh, don’t be surprised… we know who you truly are.”_

Rekat had been in shock when he heard her say Aniel was the succubus; he’d been confused when she’d said “we” instead of “I”; but he’d been completely taken aback when his senses registered that she’d called him by the nickname he was known as in Mulhorand.

The thief had stepped back, all the suppressed memories of his past coming back all at once, together in a blurry, chaotic mixture of feelings, screams and _blood_ ; everything was there, happening all over again, in front of his eyes…

She’d spoken again, her voice then like brimstone, etching itself in his ears, burning into the core of his mind as persuasively as an erupting volcano. Rekat had heard Aniel calling out his name and had felt her smooth skin gliding across his, but he hadn’t been able to move; so, he’d shuddered as Aniel’s soft lips brushed the skin on his ears with the sound of his name and, along with that, every single unfulfilled desire playing in front of his eyes… An elven woman had come into the room and the girl’s voice rose from that streaming chant to a high-pitched scream. Her tiny hands had grasped her head, the bloodied wings fully stretched backwards… And then, for a reason, as the man had come, it suddenly stopped: the memories, the voice, the _blood_ and the girl fell back, unconscious, into the elven woman’s arms; and just like her, he’d fallen into Aniel’s, his thoughts in shambles, his body uncontrolled.

And Rekat hadn’t stopped shivering after the meeting with the girl, two weeks ago, at the Inn in Waterdeep, on the way to Yartar.

“How could she have such an effect on you, Rekat?” Aniel’s voice tugged at his senses. “She was only _talking_.”

He brought his eyes to the level of hers, causing, almost immediately, Aniel to straighten up while gasping at the intensity with which he was looking at her.

“ _Talking_ , maybe,” he hissed through clenched teeth, “but Aniel, how would you feel if someone, somehow, made you remember _every single moment_ of your miserable life? How would you?”

“Rekat, she could now know—”

“She _did_!” he shouted, grasping the sides of her upper arms so tightly that Aniel grunted. “She knew everything about me and she just kept saying it over and over again.” He was desperate, frantic and she didn’t know what to so as he brutally shook her.

“Rekat—”

“What would _you_ to then, Aniel, if someone spoke about the things which you have been trying to forget for so long? What would you do if you kept seeing everything in front of your eyes over and over again, despite all the troubles you went through to let it all go? What would _you_ do?”

Her angled brows came down in a frown and she fought to keep her voice steady, even with his shaking her. “I’d pretend I don’t care; if you pretend long enough, it will become real.”

Rekat stopped and, once more, looked very deeply into her eyes. “That won’t work.”

She laughed a crystalline, hearty laugh, but by the tone with which she spoke, the thief knew she wasn’t finding this amusing. “Rekat, you’ve seen what I do; think I’d be able to live if it didn’t work?” Aniel teasingly ran the length of his nose with her index finger. “Keep telling yourself it doesn’t matter and you’ll see that, even when people try slapping the things you’ve done against your face, it really _won’t_.”

Her touch tingled his skin in an almost unbearable way, as though it’d been asleep for so long and only now it was awaking because of millions and millions of ants were crawling through its surface.

“Pretend until pretending turns real, huh?” He sighed, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand out of his face. Aniel stiffened, her breath no longer coming out like it should be.

“Yes,” Aniel stated, her voice like deep echoes of drops of water falling on crystal caves. Her dark eyes widened when she felt Rekat pulling her towards him.

“Did you know, Aniel, that the most lethal weapon of a succubus is her kiss?” he asked into her ear; her legs wobbled and she’d most likely have fallen if Rekat hadn’t tightly wrapped an arm around her waist. Just… what was wrong with her? When other people had touched her, she’d felt immensely disgusted and there had been a need to go wash immediately, as if they’d left some gooey liquid on her skin. But those had been people who’d sunk so low as to have _paid_ her for it; with Rekat… for a reason, with Rekat it was different. It was different because at first, he’d shown absolutely _no_ interest in her and, Jisan be blessed, he’d even scowled and frowned at her “too pretty face”.

“Why are you saying that?” she asked, unable to move from his close embrace. Rekat smirked down at her, his warm breath now on her cheeks, tying her even more to those strange sensations.

“The girl asked me about you, but she didn’t mention your name; she called you “succubus”, Aniel. Did you really not know that, or have you been pretending to be a regular half-elf all along?” he hissed; now, his lips were brushing hers, slowly, painfully… How could the girl have known? “Why, it has disturbed you.” Rekat squinted at her with pale green eyes, a hint of censure and mockery in his voice. “See, how it’s not as easy as that, Aniel? When it deals with your own nature, _pretending_ is not enough.”

Aniel breathed out; it’d been a while since someone had even mentioned that… “Lilith tempted, and the world was filled with her tainted progeny; they made the land grow barren, the trees to wither and the flesh to rot. Of their father, no one knew; their mother was slain and all of them were taken to a place down below; a place of damnation; a place of suffering; Hell.” Her voice was grave, but Rekat had the feeling she was _reciting_ something someone had told her, because even though her eyes were fixed on his face, they weren’t looking there. “To each, a different kind of Hell came; to each, a different fate came; to all of them, pain became familiar.”

She laughed, contrasting with the way she’d been speaking before. “I was told this before I was sold; back then, it made me feel like a cursed, rejected being. But, as time passed, I began pretending that it did not matter; now it really doesn’t. We can become anything Rekat, look—”

The little distance between their lips was closed. Aniel kissed him softly, her tongue sluggishly caressing his for the briefest, most agonizing moment of his life; every fiber of Rekat’s body was responding to her deliberately slow touch, wanting more and more… but when he began responding to the kiss, after biting Rekat’s lower lip, she pulled out, making his heart skip a hurtful beat.

“If the fact that I’m part succubus bothered me Rekat, do you think you’d still be alive?” Aniel huskily teased. “Don’t underestimate the power of what our minds can achieve.”

Unable to speak, Rekat nodded.

Taking advice from a whore… Where his standards had gone…

 

 

From the Hosttower window, Brian shifted in his position.

His Lord Shemal had told him one of his most trusted lackeys would be arriving sometime today to lend him and Prarg a hand in the fall of the weakened regime which ruled Luskan; he’d expected someone strong, challenging, imposing, _commanding_.

But what was in front of him was a graceful woman with skin so pale you could see the veins from few feet away; a weak-looking, weary-worn out woman who was truly black a white, save for the yellow eyes and pale orange hair.

“I trust you know my capacities already.” Her sharp voice resonated within the stone walls. “Or otherwise, the plans would not be able to be carried out in schedule.”

“Lord Shemal informed me of your… talents when he told me you were coming,” Brian said. “I just… was expecting someone that would look stronger.”

Yarija pursed her full, black lips in annoyance. “I am much stronger than I look; if you doubt that, we can battle.”

Direct, was she not?

The door to the room opened and slammed shut. “Is she the one?” a guttural, deep voice asked. “She is too puny to be her.”

Brian saw Yarija’s cloaked figure turn to face the newcomer, asking. “Who are you?”

“This, my lady, is Prarg,” Brian cleared. “Prarg, this is Yarija Thress, coming directly from Baldur’s Gate where our Lord Shemal recently was installed at.”

“The letter he sent us said she was a mighty warrior with a skin covered by scars; she is shorter than you and there are no scars on her face; how can a mighty warrior not have scars on his face?”

Yarija smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. “The same way a dumb half-orc can manage to use a long axe without cutting himself.”

Brian tried to water the fire by saying “Now please, let’s not be hasty—” but apparently, none of them heard him, as Prarg shouted something back at Yarija, to which she promptly responded; it went on and on for several minutes and Brian really _didn’t_ know what he’d done wrong to deserve having two of his subordinates at each other’s throats; he’d only joined the Zhents to take revenge against the Luskans; he’d never signed up to deal with _difficult_ , stubborn people!

Sadly, life was ironical and he’d never managed to do the former and had to handle the latter every single day. Hopefully, it’d change soon and once Luskan belonged to the Zhentarim, _he_ , their representative in this part of the realm would be able to make life a living hell for the people who’d taken his very own away.

He’d not be able to do it if these two killed each other off today, though.

With a swift gesture of his arm, a hawk flew down into the room and, with its sharp claws, grabbed Yarija’s cloak and pulled it out; Brian raised an eyebrow at the _lack_ of clothing underneath it. Yarija only wore a black strap of clothing around her breasts and a knee-length skirt, split at both sides. What surprised him most, though, were the lean, yet well-defined muscles which were… _adorned_ was the best word he could come up with when he gazed at the elaborated drawings which completely covered her back and occasional parts of her arms. Only that… they were not _drawings_ : they were cuts covered with black ink.

Yarija snarled. “Well, believe it now?”

Prarg laughed as he made a series of movements with his right thumb. “May the Black Sun consume thee,”

 _For He is merciful_ , Brian completed to himself.

Tomorrow, Lord Shemal’s plan would begin… and with it, his thirst for vengeance would be quenched.

 

She arrived.

Like a tidal wave, it washed over her, fast and furious, repelling and strong. Eldritch Power.

But… she could not call upon it; it was there, so close, so intense and yet she could not call upon it. Why would that be?

Someone put a hand on her shoulder, comforting. “Is it easier to swim in an angry sea where the currents pull you in all directions or in a calm, quiet ocean?” Zhjaeve told her. “It was far away for so long, was it not? Your body has to get used to its presence once again before you’re at ease with your power.”

The aasimar nodded.

Deep inside, she wondered how long it would take.

 

Moons rose and fell; then it was the sun who came and rose and fell; then the moon again; and then the sun. Again and again, he’d only watched that happen, without little interest for anything else; again and again, for _five_ years.

He could not leave the Zhents; Kalyt would kill him as soon as she found him and he believed it’d only be a couple of hours before she would manage to track him down. Well, at least he wasn’t really forced into doing anything he wouldn’t do _without_ them: all he did was scouting people around and that would have been his work anyway.

“I’m going upstairs,” Kalyt informed from the seat beside him after downing the rest of her ale in a gulp. “We will go north again after I arrange the weapon shipments; and please see that Aniel is not late again; if she is, I’ll make her go back to low-whoring.”

“She will end up low-whoring herself anyway,” he retorted.

“True,” Kalyt softly admitted. “I’d try saying I’d cut off Rekat’s balls, but I don’t like making promises I’ll never hold on to. He works better with them.”

He shrugged. “I could care less.”

“You’re bored. You know, we _could_ go have fun now, ranger…” she purred into his ear.

He looked down at his mug and took a gulp of ale. “No.”

Kalyt’s features hardened, but she did not insist; the only time she had, she’d braced herself for one big disappointment. “Sometimes you’re boring,” she mocked and left, swaggering all the way to the stairs.

And at last, he was free from that annoying voice and blatantly exaggerated sense of superiority. _That_ was something he’d begun cherishing above all else _after_ joining up with the Zhents.

He heard someone approaching him from behind and mentally cursed Kalyt while preparing another denial to give her. Damn it, she could be _persistent_ before finally giving up.

Only that it wasn’t her upsetting high-pitched voice which spoke; it was a soft, low one which seemed to make the air around him dance. “Your burden is growing heavier… Bishop.”

He spun round at the mention of his name and came face-to-face with a redheaded girl, possibly in the beginning of her teenage years; her eyes gazed intently into his, as if trying to find something… He’d seen that look somewhere before, he was sure of it… but where?

The nonchalant way in which she carried herself was strangely familiar as well; her steady gaze flickered with confusion, and he had seen that somewhere before, too. But it was _the voice_ which gave it all away.

“You’re that girl,” Bishop noted. “The assassin’s daughter.”

Her neutral expression changed to one of slight anger. “Do _not_ speak of mother that way when you’ve done much worse things than she. Plus—” a lopsided smile started playing on Tyavain’s thin lips, “at least she did not cower at the realization of her _true_ feelings towards the ones she loved.”

Bishop pursed his lips and squinted at the girl. His hands twitched, closing around the hidden handle of a dagger, but he did not draw it. Oh yes, he remembered this kid well enough… from Crossroad Keep, back when he was still with Firanis and he had never got over the fact that the girl could simply tell both what was wrong with Firanis and… his feelings for the aasimar with just one look, one touch; and then a month after, in some Inn along the road to Baldur’s Gate, where she’d _very kindly_ started to give him moral lessons wrapped in strange innuendos.

“I saw you there…” she said, as if guessing what was on his mind. “When I approached and watched her, in the depths of her soul. You were there, behind her, a hand on her neck, whispering into her ear, and she could only smile as she listened to your voice in delight.”

Bishop breathed in, trying to grasp the last of his slippery self-control. “If you want to live, I suggest you shut up.”

“You won’t kill me,” she kept talking in her soft, low, mesmerizing voice. “You want to see her again, don’t you? Your body longs for hers again, melting against your skin, fully yours as it was before; your darkness longs for her light, to drown it again in the shadows of temptation…” Her words stung him; stupid girl, reopening old wounds, bringing out the past! In a swift movement, the ranger moved up, wrapping an arm around her neck; the girl’s voice became quieter, but still she kept on. “Oh, yes you do want her back… It’s choking you, as you are choking me now. You _need_ her to feel whole, to feel alive, to feel _free_.” He tightened the grasp and the girl gasped for air, but still offered no resistance. “You tell yourself you’re free as you are now, but you know it’s not true… Like this, you’re chained to her memory, to the past… And you love her, a secret you keep even from yourself.

“Her… Firanis Hlaetlarn.”

It was as if a snake slithered around him and bit into his heart; Bishop let the girl go. She took a couple of steps forward, spun round and looked at him again with those icy blue eyes of hers. And it hurt; it hurt because those eyes remembered Firanis’s, that day, when she’d been completely frozen. But his expression remained cool, calm, masquerading his emotions perfectly.

Like it had before.

“Just… don’t be afraid. When the time comes,” Tyavain said with a sweet, trembling voice; she smiled at him, a light, unsure smile. “Sadly, this is all I can tell you now.”

He watched as the girl left, unable to do or say anything. When he returned to his ale, it wasn’t as appealing as before, and neither was Amn nor the money his new job implied.

He’d left Firanis because he couldn’t handle ties of any kind; he just wasn’t one to shackle himself to anything or anyone – and when he realized he felt for her in a way he’d never thought possible, he knew he had to cut their bonds.

And so, he did it. Betrayed her in the end, turned himself to Garius, hoped her death would come at the Keep so that he would regain his freedom; but he’d been stupid… Of course she would not die… And when he saw her in the Vale of Merdelain, when he saw the sorrow in her eyes and the pain on her voice, he realized as well that she was being torn apart.

He’d walked out on her because he _knew_ they’d both die if he didn’t back out. And when he finally admitted that he cared for her, it was already too late. Merdelain’s walls crumbled, and she never came out before. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to say she was dead; she was a hero; and a hero in every sense of the word. And because, like the girl had said, he wanted her back.

Bishop derisively laughed to himself. Only one good thing had happened to him in this whole miserable life – and he’d thrown it away; and as far as he was concerned, people like him were not entitled to a second chance: they got punished.

“Has the stuck-up bitch gone up yet?” asked yet another female voice; this one was grave, sensuous, tempting: it was Aniel’s.

“Yes, she has,” Bishop briskly replied. “She said that if you’re late tomorrow, she’ll make you go to the pits of prostitution again.”

Aniel sat down next to him and crossed her legs. “She won’t. Who was the girl you were talking to?”

Bishop quickly dismissed her, “None of your business. Where’s the thief?”

“Nowhere of your concern!” Aniel snapped. Bishop watched her sticking her nails into her shapely thighs in anger; it was a while before the fingers became loose. “I would kill you if I could, Bishop, I _would_!”

Bishop let out a low whistle. “He couldn’t bear to watch a nobleman with his fat hands around you?”

Something cold was pressed against his throat. “I swear to you, Bishop,” Aniel threatened in a strong whisper at his ear, “the day I learn about your past is the day I’ll make you swallow all those words, you stinky blackmailer.”

“Thing is, Aniel, you won’t.” Bishop smirked at her; Aniel pressed the blade harder against his throat – not enough to kill, but enough to make blood trail down into the neckline of his shirt. Then she left, swaying her hips in the same way Kalyt had – but in a much more efficient way.

Then, he allowed himself to complete the sentence. “You won’t because she’s dead.”

Behind him, a shadow moved; Bishop never saw Rekat leaving it and heading upstairs.

 

 

There was a hole in her soul, she’d been said; a hole so big that it consumed her feelings, her sensations and her thoughts – it had even consumed the very essence of her power as well. But, when the hole was big, the gorging fountain of power was infinite and thus her wound had been filled, mended, until it overflowed and she could feel the sea which was the essence once again near her; a bursting, uncontrolled sensation at first… then it’d been subdued to a whisper… soothing, caressing, tempting… later it’d begun speaking and she could call upon it again. Not that she needed to: there was no one to use it on Arborea.

It’d never grown beyond that level, though; the essence was there, spilling over, _screaming_ , but still she could not use it as strongly as before. She knew why, though; it was because even if Arborea was a nice place, it wasn’t home.

_It’s amazing that even after five years, I still don’t allow myself to heal._

Firanis fell back and tumbled sideways, out of the way of the wooden sword that had been intended to hit her shoulder.

“Balance, Firanis, balance!” her trainer, a shiradi named Melynia shouted. “You dodge, but you still leave yourself open for another strike!”

Firanis looked down, breathing hard. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Melynia shook her head. “You’ll just have to keep practicing, then. At least you don’t tumble on your feet anymore.”

“I know but to me, fighting is like cooking!”

“Cooking?” Her trainer stammered. “Why cooking?”

“No matter how hard I try, I just don’t get better. I don’t think I’m slated for any of those.” Firanis confessed, despair written all over her face.

“Nonsense. You just don’t improve at cooking because your companions must be so scared of your dishes that they _never_ let you cook.”

“Well… yes. I don’t blame them, though. Even Ilwyn is smart enough to keep me from doing it.”

The other woman smiled. “Well, you’ll improve at this whether you want it or not; I never thought Eleste had said the truth when she said you were a calamity in sword-fighting. You _did_ defeat the king of Shadows after all.”

Firanis blushed. “I am a magic user.”

“Magic user or not, that’s no excuse; you’re a flexible person, Firanis. You just… haven’t found a way to concentrate on your capacities yet.” Melynia stretched her arms upwards and yawned. “We’re done for today, Firanis. We’ll continue tomorrow at the same hour, here.”

Firanis bowed down, said goodbye and headed home.

Five years was a long time, was it not? Five years in Arborea, practicing, improving for a _war_ she knew nothing about except that she’d play a part in it; five years…

 _Wait, is that…?_ Her brows came down; someone was singing. She searched for the source and, amidst the trees and the small courses of water, was Ilwyn, sitting on a rock, singing.

 _Ilwyn_ was singing.

The aasimar waited, observing the child who was with her eyes closed… Why didn’t Firanis understand a thing of what she was saying? It was not in either celestial or common but… it _stirred_ everything inside her, invoking sensations of pain and solitude and sorrow and loss.

She realized she must’ve made a sound, because Ilwyn stopped singing and looked at her with her. With the song were gone all those feelings and Firanis felt a strange emptiness inside, as though those feelings the music had brought had been her own all along and had been ripped apart from her after it’d stopped.

“Hey, mom,” said the girl.

Firanis approached her daughter and squatted down next to her. “That was beautiful, Ilwyn. What was it about?”

Ilwyn’s features became morosely twisted. “It’s a sad song, mom, even though the pace is brisk and the melody is soft.” Her daughter smiled sweetly at her, the girl’s honey brown eyes sad. “It speaks of someone who was left alone ever since he was young; he grew up in stones, spoke only with the relentless breeze; he tasted death too soon, just as he learned of the ways of the wind and of the earth.”

Firanis bit down her lip and tried to bring a smile to it. “Is there any more to it?”

Ilwyn nodded. “Yes. He was hated by pretty much everyone he knew… he frequently went starving and got in fights with the others who thought him a “nobody”. When he gathered enough courage, he left his hometown for a better life. He’s always had a hard time and, sadly, it wasn’t about to change; he dreamed of better things, but, in the end, he kills every single reminder of the past, loses his innocence and ends up walking the darkest, dustiest roads of life.”

The girl closed her eyes as her mother brushed her wild, tangled hair. “Mommy?” she called out, but obtained no response; there was only the touch of her mother’s slim fingers on her head. Ilwyn tilted her head up to look at her mother’s face; Firanis blinked when her hand didn’t find Ilwyn’s messy hair anymore and fell like a lump of lifeless meat. “You don’t like it, mom?” the girl asked.

Firanis bent, her forehead colliding with her daughter’s. “I do, my sweet. It just… makes me remember,” she hesitated, “a song I knew long ago.”

“A song?”

“Yes. A song,” Firanis stated. “Now let’s go to your Aunts and Uncles. They’re waiting.”

“Okay.”

Firanis held out a hand which was quickly taken by her daughter. Ilwyn’s features were beginning to lose their rounded edges and to sharpen; her hair, too, which had been of a rich red-brown color had lightened up a bit, enough for the red to become cashew… and she was so stubborn sometimes that the comparison between her and _him_ was unavoidable… So, as they walked home, the aasimar could only remember mist and the Grey’s face and the day she’d decided to step forward into that abyss.

The song she knew… In the song she knew, the man ended up surrounded by the hunting wolves of his past and the last thing he saw were the wings of faceless vultures. _Because in the end, you will do everything to fill up the void loss has created. You’ll even embrace death if it promises you everything will be gone._

_I have Ilwyn to fill that void, Bishop._

_…_

_So why do I wonder if you have something as well?_

 

 


	7. Fantasia: Omens, Disturbance, Confusion

**_Fantasia_ **

****

_“Your side is twisted, my dear.” He noted, the tip of his index finger playing with his Queen’s head. “Leave them together for a while and not even you will be able to control them.”_

_“I_ did _separate the succubus and the thief, did I not?” she roared. “Why must you criticize my every move?”_

_“You improvise too much, my darling, and this is a game that has to be thought.” He yawned. “That move, for instance, will bring trouble, don’t you think?”_

_“They have to be put through ordeals to be able to prevail in the end, do they not?” she gave him a wan imitation of a smile. “After all, that is why your Queen is still—”_

_“She is not ready.” He spurted out, wisps of saliva flowing out of his mouth onto the tray. “And you should know that neither of pieces are as well.”_

****

**Seven**

_Omens_  
Disturbance  
Confusion

 

Pain Vasjra circled the man kneeling on the floor, one of her hands tightly grasping the whip handle while the other scratched the bare nape of his neck. “You’re back,” she whispered. “News?”

He breathed in, the movement of her nails sending shivers down his spine. “Neire was meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Kalyt in Amn last week – apparently to arrange special weapon shipments to Lord Shemal’s stronghold in the North, Yartar and Luskan.”

Her hand moved to his shoulder and she squatted down in front of him. “Hmm? Truly? They passed right through here without paying me a visit?” her hand closed, nails piercing flesh and blood dripped down, mingling with the sweat on his skin; her touch was not as nearly irate as her voice, however. “That Zhentarim slut; thinks she’s too good to come down here? Who was with her?”

He gulped down. “Rekat, a ranger I never saw and that woman.”

 _“Rekat_? A ranger? A _woman_!?” Vasjra hissed, her very own voice seething due to a mingling of disbelief and indignation. “I heard she’d got her hands on a new, _capable_ scout and Rekat’s valuable to the plans she has to carry out…” she wrinkled her nose and forehead, looking at the kneeling man with half closed eyes. “But I know Kalyt. She wouldn’t travel with women unless someone forced her to… Tell me, what was she like?”

He opened his mouth, but slammed it shut as instantly.

The whip came clashing down on his already scarred back; he yelped; Vasjra grabbed the sides of his face, nails sinking as deep as they could, and demanded. “Tell me now.”

“She…” he stammered, only to feel the familiar hard caress of the whip on his backside again. “She was… indescribable, my mistress.”

Vasjra raised a platinum brow. “Indescribable, you say?” She took a hand to her chin, thinking… Did she know anyone who called forth such a vague description? “How so?”

“My mistress, she simply was… beyond… beautiful. Everything she did, even the sleaziest, dirtiest act seemed to look… good; when she walked, her body curves swayed and it was like a charm. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Also, she was wearing a black dancing outfit that showed lots of… porcelain-white, delicate skin.” A smile played on his lips, causing Vasjra to frown in disgust.

But still… _porcelain white, delicate skin_ …

Like dandelion clocks gliding in a summer breeze.

 _Aniel_.

“The _whore_!” She was completely incredulous! She’d been _here_ at this very temple when they’d sent her to Yartar; but to go so far as to be arranging shipments… _Lord Shemal must have a lot of faith in the slimy little thing. And Lord Shemal is always right; I must not doubt him, I mustn’t…_

“Where are they going now?” she asked.

“They… they’re… they’ll go separate ways once they reach Waterdeep; Rekat and the woman are to report to Lord Shemal’s stronghold and then receive new orders directly from either him or Lady Ethlinn; and Mistress Kalyt and the ranger are to head up to Luskan.” He explained; Malar be blessed… his whole body hurt… he only wished mistress Vasjra would be so kind as to remove the broken glass from under his knees…

“Welcome the pain, Forlend!” she commanded as if she’d been reading his mind. “It’s the only constant in life, the only thing that will always accompany you… don’t fear it; _cherish_ it.”

He bowed down his head reverently. “Yes mistress.”

“What did Lord Shemal ask you to do _after_ you learned all that?”

“Brian, Yarija and Prarg are still up in Luskan and—”

“ _Still_ in Luskan?” Vasjra interrupted.

“Yes, my Mistress, they… Even though the Hosttower regimen hasn’t fallen, _everyone_ who used to hold some measure of power either vanished or is under their control.”

“So, they’re indirectly controlling the city?”

“No. They’re quite direct, I’m afraid; they just… enjoy having people doing the dirty work for them. Brian and Prarg, at least.”

Vasjra rose up, bringing the edge of the whip handle just below her chin. “I expected such from Brian, but Prarg? When I last saw him, he cut down slaves just so he could have an excuse to oil his axe later.” The handle slid down across the neck, the line between her breasts, stopping at the bellybutton. “What of Yarija?”

“I don’t know, my mistress. The only fact that reached my ears was that she is the embodiment,” he stopped due to a heavy shuddering, “of something and Lord Shemal said that no one but him is to touch her.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” the half-drow whispered, “he’s oddly attached to that sickly pale thing, Lord Shemal. Anyway,” she sighed and moved her index finger, indicating Forlend that he could rise up, an order which he more than enthusiastically obeyed, “my orders?”

“Lord Shemal said we’re to go to Yartar as well, to ensure its ruling is to be maintained properly.”

Vasjra snorted. “Yartar it is then. I’d invite you to stay for the candle ritual but Forlend, I’d doubt it’d do any good.” She smirked cruelly. “That burned skin of yours surely mustn’t help with the ladies… So wipe that contentment of your face; the whore won’t have you. Go.” She clapped her hands, but the man didn’t move; he just kept eyeing her as though she’d just shattered a very bright, vivid illusion. “Go!” she shouted again.

He went.

Pain Vasjra moved to the altar and lit up a vanilla-scented candle; so she was going to work with the whore again and she _hated_ the damned woman! Not that she loved anyone but when it came to Aniel, the hatred she felt was intense, strong, _consuming_ … Lord Shemal surely knew how to put his lackeys’ endurance to the test…

She held the candle up and tilted it; wax rained down on her skin, the quick sensation of its burning touch thrilling on her naked breasts. She couldn’t argue with Lord Shemal… one could _never_ argue with Lord Shemal, lest he would dine your own heart while you rejoiced in the honor of it… Yes… no one would displease Lord Shemal, _he_ who made death look sweet and kind… he who would make you pluck out your eyes with just one word; he, who would unleash Hell on your skin just with a single, wispy touch… Whatever he asked, she would do; whatever he needed, she would give.

More wax dropped; her skin reveled in the twisted ecstasy of pain and pleasure.

Because…

Pain was Constant. Pain was Life. He was Pain.

Therefore, Lord Shemal was her life.

 

 

Once, the house had been an empty wooden shell, abandoned by its previous owner; now, five years after their settlement, there was an intricate pattern made of ivies which hugged the walls and, through the glass windows could be seen a gentle light on the inside instead of a churning void of darkness and dust.

Then, there was chamomile and lavender; mentha and pennyroyal and parsley; aloe vera and belladonna and every single plant you could grow in Arborea was there, in Elanee’s small garden of herbs. Firanis had no idea as to why Elanee would want belladonna to grow so close to her home as it was deadly poisonous… but then again, the druid did not know why the orange lilies and marigolds insisted on blooming when she’d planted none. And Firanis had explained her why.

Orange Lilies and Marigolds… Firanis liked those flowers a lot, despite the fact that they were used in funeral rites because they’d been in West Harbor, near her house and in Crossroad Keep, on the ground below her window. Even during her short stay at the Sunken Flagon, those flowers had begun to bloom around the nearest tree which adorned the streets of the docks. So, she’d planted new ones in the hopes of making this her home again but… something was still lacking.

What was it that Neeshka had said once? _Home is where the heart is_ , wasn’t it? Maybe that expression was truer than the tiefling herself thought it to be.

Firanis reached out to touch the door handle and felt a sudden sense of weariness washing over her, little imaginary needles sticking into her spine; she let go of it almost immediately.

“What’s wrong, mom?” Ilwyn asked.

Firanis shook her head. “Nothing, dear. Just a bad shiver… I do so hope it’s not because they’ve let your uncle Grobnar cook again.” She sighed as if to convince herself of her own words before opening the door to the entrance of the wide house she’d been given.

When you’ve been living with the same people for over five years, you think you get used to them and to their habits, however nasty they might be. Firanis had discovered that that statement might be true, but only in cases in which you’re living with a group of relatively normal people who think alike in many ways. Because living with her companions was like expecting the sky to fall on your head at every minute.

Apart, Firanis could pretty much say what they would and would not do in a situation; together, though… they were all unpredictable. Personalities clashed more than often; tastes rivaled; needs varied. Sincerely, the aasimar had never thought it’d be such an issue; after all, they’d been together at Crossroad Keep. Cramping ten people together shouldn’t be too hard after that… Unfortunately, to Firanis’s dismay, she’d come to realize that her house was far smaller than the stronghold and that that tiny little difference was enough to make the most peaceful day into a chaotic ruckus.

So when she heard the fussing and the scurrying and the _noise_ from the doorstep, she sincerely feared that someone had yet another heated argument with some other for the sheer _fun_ of it.

“Ilwyn?” the aasimar called out, voice slightly trembling. “What were they fighting about when you left?”

“They weren’t fighting,” the girl replied, twisting one of her braids in her index finger over and over again before looking up. “An elf lady arrived; didn’t take too long for them all to be blabbering around.”

The aasimar raised one of her rusty copper eyebrows. “An elf lady?”

“Yes.”

“What…” Closing her eyes, Firanis tried to steady herself by inhaling but the air seemed to thicken ominously, making it harder to breathe. “What else did you see?”

 The girl gawped for moments, her brown eyes huge, apparently trying to find a way to describe something her mind still lacked the capacity to fully understand. “You know it’s… hard; to put it into words, mom. I can’t…” she blushed, licking her lips, “But there was something in her that I always see in you; she was like you, mom, and your flowers. And I think her name was… Esm… Esm…” Ilwyn shut down her eyes, stuttering a few times on the same syllable; she gave up after a few more tries, helplessly looking up to her mother. “Almost like the green stone?”

Her lungs tightened; almost like _emerald_?

In one frantic movement, Firanis opened the door and strode through the small hall into the large room that served as both kitchen and living room, stopping a few inches away from the door. Ammon lunged calmly against the wall, his eyes meeting hers as soon as she’s come to a halt. Later, Firanis would have to talk to him about the strange feeling of diminishment which had been developing in the past months, but not now… Not when there was this other sensation of graveness taking control of all her senses.

“It’s your mother,” Ammon stated, crossing his arms over his chest; Firanis thought there was an unspoken question lingering in the air between them… and she knew which one it was. But before she could reply, Ilwyn was tugging and Ammon Jerro’s robes.

“Uncle Ammon?”

Jerro sighed; Firanis smiled at him, whispering, “You can do it in front of me, you know?”

There was a grumble; Ilwyn’s feet were lifted from the ground and Firanis could have sworn she heard him complain that she was “Getting too heavy.”

“Or you’re getting too old,” the aasimar jokingly muttered under her breath, only to receive a murderous look from the other warlock. He approached her and, for moments, she tensed, afraid of his reaction. It was only when Ilwyn rested her head on Ammon’s shoulder that Firanis allowed her body to relax.

Something was wrong with her. Something was _definitely_ wrong.

Jerro leaned to murmur into her hear, loud enough for Firanis to understand but not enough for Ilwyn to hear, “I’ll take her outside. Whatever’s going to be said, she doesn’t need to hear it yet.”

The aasimar nodded. “Thank you. I’ll talk to you later, then.”

Ammon adjusted Ilwyn’s position. “Still can’t do it?”

Firanis brow quirked; Ammon sounded tired; he sounded _really_ tired, with his usually hoarse voice lower and even more strained than it usually was. Perhaps he’d noticed it already… maybe that was why he’d snapped at her early mockery of his age. She bit her tongue to restrain herself from pointing out that fact – Jerro hated whenever she did it and now was not the best time to piss off any of her companions. So she just shook her head in response.

“We’ll have to keep working on that,” Jerro said.

“I don’t want to impose on you, Ammon—”

He cut her off again, angrily. “And why would you impose on me? I _offered_ to instruct you back in Crossroad Keep. I intend to keep doing so, lest you’ll unleash something devastating on us without even noticing it.”

Firanis watched as he carried Ilwyn outside again. “I’m sorry.”

Ammon Jerro snorted. “Stop that.” He opened the door, but looked her way once before stepping through the threshold. “It’s a mess beyond that door. Don’t be surprised.”

Her lips curled up in a smile and replied to him with a single sentence. “I won’t.”

Shaking his head, he slammed the door shut, leaving her alone in the hall. Ammon Jerro had been downright cruel when she’d first met him. Calculating and detached too, but mostly _cruel_. Firanis still had no idea on how she’d got him to tell her how to summon Mephasm – but after she’d done so, she’d wagered the devil had said him something – and after the little confrontation at Shandra’s farm, something inside the older warlock had changed; thus Jerro had grudgingly helped her with the most… blunt edges of her magic and with digging deeper in the already known parts of it. And, after a while, she could almost feel he accepted her as something of an equal. But only her; to the rest, he was still blatantly disregarding and cruel. Always cruel.

So, whenever she thought of Ilwyn and Ammon outside, a kind of irony filled her heart; maybe he regretted what happened to Shandra and was trying to make up for it; maybe he _did_ miss his family; maybe it was the thin bond they’d shared in the War; maybe Ilwyn had inherited a part of her power and he was helping her discover how to handle it; but whatever it was that had created the almost natural relationship between her daughter and Ammon Jerro who was indeed one of the evilest people she’d come to know, it was _real_ ; and even though she’d seen that strange connection in action - like it’d been just a few minutes ago - several times, it always felt awkward when she tried to make a mental picture of them playing together. 

Slowly, she pivoted, the inauspicious sensation coming over again, making the world seem slower and her steps heavy; the doorknob shocked the tips of her fingers when they brushed against it and seemingly refused to turn when she rotated it.

 _Come on, it’s only your dead mother; nothing bad can come of it_ , she thought, swallowing a hard lump down her throat and firmly turning the knob.

Indeed, there was a mess, with Neeshka and Elanee and Khelgar arguing… well, about lots of things, but the gist of it apparently was the fact whether they should, or not, go call her.

Firanis held her breath as she scanned the room and her heart skipped a beat when she finally found the visitor, who was attentively listening to Grobnar.

“I’ve died once. Twice. A lot of times. But never for long enough as to know what’s like to ascend into the Realms of our Gods. Is the pain only really momentary? Are you reborn with a different appearance? Does your God really come to judge you and if you’re faithful enough, you get this new second life?”

The visitor laughed delicately, tilting her head back so that the rich copper hair fell like a shimmering waterfall; she seemed to alive, so whole… How could she be dead? “It depends.” She said. “I was told that Mulhorandi Gods _do_ weight your heart; mine didn’t. I was just… here. No pain, no wounds, just…”

 _The memory of your last moment, playing vividly on your head_ , Firanis completed to herself; or at least she thought it’s been only to herself because she didn’t remember speaking aloud. She must’ve made some sort of sound, though, because suddenly everyone was quiet and looking at her.

Firanis’s shoulders slumped down and she leaned her back against the now closed door, speechless. Her tongue seemed to be glued to the ceiling of her mouth, her brain so numb that it couldn’t formulate anything proper to say... _But really, what is someone expected to say to their once-dead-now-ascended-into-something mother?_ The aasimar asked herself.

Her mother, too, didn’t seem to be finding anything to say; she only stared at her, with her large almond-shaped eyes, all light green, devoid of pupils and sclera. Firanis found that oddly ironical. Her mother possibly had known who she’d be meeting for a while, while she… She’d been taken by surprise just a few minutes ago and that shock had been renewed when she’d set eyes on a very solid, _living_ body of a sun elf.

“You’re so much like him…” her mother’s thin lips had barely moved, but the sound reached her ears clearly and oddly strongly. “I’d always suspected you would be but…”

Firanis caught Neeshka uncomfortably shifting in her position from the corner of her eye; Elanee busily moved to check something by the fireplace; Khelgar eyed her, his expression tense but otherwise unreadable.

She heard Ilwyn screaming something on the outside, something meaningless, but cheerful by the tone she was using. And her breath. She heard her own breath coming in and out, painfully slow and thick.

“Firanis?” Casavir’s voice called right beside her; strangely enough, it eased the ugly feeling and made everything seem easy, as though it was stabilizing her tempestuous thoughts.

Firanis looked at him, mouth despairingly curved down, eyes glistening with confusion, and silently mouthed. “I don’t know what to say to her.”

“You never lacked questions and now you don’t know what to ask her?” he whispered into her ear and then, more lowly that it was more like listening only to his breath humming against her ear.

“It’s my mother! My _dead_ mother, Casavir!” Firanis tightened her fists in frustration, hissing nervously. “What am I supposed to say to her? _Oh, hi mum, just what are you doing here? And by the way, who the hell was my father and why did Guerryn act as if he were a stain in the world_?”

Casavir just smiled; and it was absolutely unreadable to her.

It stung Firanis like a sharp needle; she was their so-called _leader_ ; she’d always been able to read her companions’ expressions after spending a reasonable amount of time with them. Some had been easier than others: Neeshka, for instance, had been deceitful, for all her light, beat attitudes while… Qara had been blatant and thoroughly uncontrolled just like her magic. Casavir… Casavir had been closed at the beginning, as if he was bearing a burden too great for him but wouldn’t let anyone else share its weight to help him carry it; a marble statue, only that it showed pity and compassion, but never its true emotions. And then the marble broke, revealing the warm skin, the quiet understanding man and the reluctant _feeler_. That was when she fully understood him, his every gesture, his every look, his every _smile_ ; then, Bishop happened and the siege happened and what Firanis had thought to be only friendship turned out to have bloomed into something else in Casavir’s guarded heart.

After that night, she’d never been able to fully comprehend his words ever again, let alone his smile… Not that he smiled often for her to try to either; he only did so very rarely and when it did indeed happen, it was just a polite reflex, a good-mannered reaction and…

Knowledge. Something else too, but there was a knowing sensation about that strange lift of the lips.

“She’s _talked_ to you about something already!” Firanis exclaimed.

“Just go there and speak to her; we’re being impolite here.” The Paladin raised a brow at her, still wearing that same strange, unreadable smile; for a little while, anger boiled inside Firanis and she looked at everyone else; at Neeshka, Khelgar, Elanee, Zhjaeve, Sand and Grobnar, only to find them all _busying_ themselves with something else – from unfocused cooking to mindless scribbling -, thus ignoring her completely. They knew something; they knew something she’d told them and, despite her helplessness towards the visitor, they refused to tell her.

Blowing all the air out through her lips, Firanis took one last look at Casavir before scurrying to the other side of the room to heavily fall down seated in front of the woman who, presumably, was her mother. Ascended into something.

For a while, Firanis studied the woman whose huge, angled green eyes seemed to be as apprehensive as she was; her expression remained relatively neutral, though, the thin lips kept in a straight line as if waiting to be asked to move.

So, she gave them a reason. “Why are you here?”

The sun elf’s expression became amused – though Firanis couldn’t find out what was so funny – and she smiled. “Because of you.”

Firanis’s brow arched. “Me?”

The other woman nodded. “Yes. I’d wanted to come sooner but there were urgent matters which needed attendance and no one up here was really sure of how you were like. We knew you were a hero but more often than not, heroes can be… difficult.”

The aasimar hear only the sound of Sand’s pen scribbling on the parchment. Carefully, she assessed the previous statement but her mind was so clouded with questions that Firanis couldn’t do it properly; she remembered something though, while trying to order her thoughts, regarding her conversations with her grandfather and a particularly dodgy subject. At first, she’d refused to admit the possibility but after pondering, for a reason, it seemed to fit perfectly with her mother’s suspicions. “You had even more doubts because of my father, didn’t you? Guerryn always had that shocked look whenever I asked him about my father and he’d always either avoid talking or dismiss it by saying it wasn’t in his place to say.” Firanis looked down, squinting at her hands, neatly folded together on her lap. “You were there, weren’t you? While I was unconscious… you were there and you talked to them all.”

“Correct.”

“So whatever you’re here to tell me,” Firanis paused to flick through the faces of every other occupant of the room, “they’ve known for five years. And haven’t told me.”

Neeshka and Khelgar stopped their muttering; the spoon fell dead to one side of the cauldron of soup Elanee was stirring; the air around Casavir was grave, heavy, just like his features; Zhjaeve, who’d quietly been meditating in a corner, suddenly had her eyes open, boring into Firanis’s; Sand, too, was glancing at her, his pen hovering still above the parchment.

Firanis felt very uneasy for a while and _angry_ ; inexplicably _angry_ at everyone for knowing both that her mother was walking somewhere in the planes after her death _and_ for knowing something else she had no idea about.

“Well,” Grobnar innocently butted in, “she was your mother and she asked us not to tell you−”

“Frankly, Grobnar, the making of promises has never stopped most of you from spilling things up to me whenever _you_ needed to take a discharge of conscience.” Firanis’s tone was higher than usual. Grobnar’s jaw dropped in a mingle of embarrassment and sadness, his very widened eyes looking up at the now standing form of the aasimar; Firanis almost covered her mouth with her hands after becoming aware of how harsh she’d sounded, but abstained from it. They should’ve told her the moment she woke up; they always told her everything so why not this one?

Elanee sighed. “You’re judging us too quickly, Firanis.”

“Oh, am I?” Firanis crossed her arms over her chest, burying her nails deep into her flesh as if to hope the rage would seep out of her skin if she were to cut it. “What could be so possibly bad that none of you ever had the guts to tell me, then?”

“It’s not like you’ve always been fully open to us either!” Neeshka howled.

Firanis opened her mouth to retort, but Khelgar spoke first. “What were we supposed to say to ye anyway? _Hey, Firanis, by the way, there’s something evil and bad inside ye ‘n there’s no telling when it eats yer brain from inside out_?”

 _Something… evil? And bad?_ The aasimar’s eyes bulged out, and Khelgar gradually started to become more and more blameworthy, as he seemingly had taken a step over the line.

Sand took a hand to his forehead and shook his head; Firanis thought he was getting anxious and the breathless way in which he spoke only increased the notion. “And so the barrel decides to screw our well-kept secrecy.”

“It’s not like she wasn’t going to know anytime soon,” Khelgar hissed through clenched teeth.

Firanis turned to her mother – Gods, it was still hard to accept the whole concept of the idea – and asked, while pointing to the dwarf. “What does he mean?”

Esmerelle sighed and, placing her hands on Firanis’s shoulders, pushed her down onto her seat. Her touch was queerly warm, yet cold, as though it was there but far away at the same time; solid, but still so very ghostly. “This is going to take a while and should _not_ be heard with a clouded judgment. Much less when it is that way due to anger and resentment.”

“So it’s something _that_ bad?” Firanis snorted.

“It’s devastating. But you have to know it so you can… face the others.” Esmerelle’s gaze was gripping Firanis’s deeply, gravely.

“The others?” she stuttered.

“Yes. And before you ask, I’m not allowed to tell you anything about them: who they are or what they’re so special for. I can tell you that they’re rotten to the core and that they’re your enemies though… As for you,” for a while, Esmerelle’s tone, face and grip on the shoulders lost all the formal, severe weight, and became warm, tender, smiling, “the only reason I’m allowed to even be here is because you’re mine and it was fated all along for me to be the one telling you this. Now, purge all the anger out of you.”

Firanis nodded. She grabbed every thread, every figment, every little, faint trace of indignity and pulled them, pondered on why she had allowed them to grow thus just because her friends had refused to tell her something. She reached the strings of hypocrisy and cut them off, knowing she really had no right to act like this when she’d kept so many things in secret from them. Little by little, she cleansed her mind of everything bad that had accumulated inside her; after all, she couldn’t judge _anyone_ , she couldn’t blame anything on _anyone_. Everyone was imperfect; everyone made mistakes; what was the point in keeping them all locked inside? Sadness was a big burden and all those little things – some less insignificant than others – only added weight to it until it was too heavy to carry – thus making you starting to take things on other people.

 _Since when did I become so pessimist?_ Firanis asked herself as the last traces of darkness faded from her mind.

“Don’t worry, everyone feels like that once in a while,” her mother whispered and Firanis wondered if she’d read her thoughts. But no. All Esmerelle was saying was a sentence to comfort her when she’d finally felt her mind was clear to hear whatever she’d come here to tell. Inhaling sharply, Esmerelle closed her eyelids and whispered. “In the beginning, there was mist.”

And then the weird, bleak feeling came back again, submerging everything around her to allow a newfound fear emerge from the depths of its tides. And Firanis drowned in them.

 

 

Lord Shemal’s stronghold was built right in the heart of the Spine of the World; it was snowing when Aniel got there and, amidst the falling flocks, the marble fortress loomed like an ominous, haunted house, with not a single trace of light escaping the cavities of the windows, making them look like sunken black eyes, watching everything which came and went.

Oddly enough, Aniel found herself remembering the Zakharan tales of her childhood and associating _this_ building with the palaces of the antagonists; not because it was black, like those palaces had usually been depicted, but because of the empty, void-like feel it gave away. And Aniel didn’t consider herself to be a good person; Rekat wasn’t a good person either; the same applied for Bishop and Kalyt and everyone she’d met while she was with the Zhents. So, whatever was being planned right now… they’d obviously be the bad guys. So her correlation wasn’t all that far-fetched.

“I had that look the first time I came here; walked out feeling even worse,” a low voice said beside her. She slightly turned her head and tilted it up to meet her companion’s eyes.

And they _did_ look preoccupied, piquing up in curiosity inside her. “How so?” she asked.

Rekat chuckled almost nervously, something in her stomach responding to that action by squirming strongly. It’d done that frequently in the past but now it was getting progressively worse; and she couldn’t afford that. Combined with the dreams she’d been having, it meant nothing but something she wasn’t supposed to ever feel – or so she’d been told.

“Once you meet Lord Shemal, you’ll know.” He placed his arm around her shoulders, motioning her forward. “Let’s go. I don’t want you to catch a cold before that happens.”

 _Ah, Rekat…_ She’d never catch a cold… not when her whole body was on fire because of his solid-yet-absent touch. So much like in the dreams, but better. Or maybe not. She had a whole lot more than just this in her dreams… Dreams that were real enough for her to wake up wet and spent and peculiarly eased of some kind of hunger. Good dreams. But disappointing for remaining only that: dreams. In reality, she only had sex with certain key people and…

“Halt!” someone shouted at them. “Who are…? Oh, _Rekat_.” His voice changed from the original commanding tone to a more derisive, disgusted one. “You’re back. Brought someone with you, did you?”

 “This Aniel, is Hopks.” Rekat hissed with a wrinkled nose and brow, his arm pulling her closer to him as he shouted. “May the Black Sun consume thee,”

“For he is merciful,” the guard completed. “Wait there, we’re opening the door.”

“Guards, for a reason, think they’re better than us stealthy people because they’re frontal. Don’t bother with him beyond telling him the saying to enter Lord Shemal’s places; guards are really not worth your worries.” Rekat explained her, his mouth so close to her ear that she felt his warm breath tickling it, despite the cold air around them.

The Iron door opened an inch, and then another, until it was spread enough for both of them to pass. Up close, Aniel could see Hopks’s dull features more clearly and her insides turned over in disgust at the way he looked at her. What had Bishop told her once? _For a whore, you’re oddly prudish,_ hadn’t it? Well, she’d been an expensive one for a reason: no matter how repulsing the looks, payment always compensated; and Hopks’s didn’t look like he had it took to spend a single night with her – from status to money to looks.

Rekat dragged her to the entrance of the main building – a wide, mid-heighted curved door carved out of some dark, shiny material – which began opening to them; once inside, they were greeted by Belken’s annoyingly happy face and, despite the rattling of his teeth, despicable cheerful tone.

“Welcome, welcome!” he said, spreading his arms around himself in an open gesture. “It’s been a while since I saw you Rekat; oh don’t give me that sodden look when I know you’re glad to see me. Saves you the time to learn how to manipulate someone entirely new and,” he bent down to take one of Aniel’s gloved hands into both of his, causing her to throw him a quizzical look. “Aniel. Still undeniably alluring. How you can still remain so beautiful with that reddened face, I’ll never know.”

“Cut the slack Belken, will you?” Rekat lowly roared. “We’re here because of Shemal, not you.”

Belken sighed. “Always so blunt. Yes, he is waiting for you both.” Nudging them forward, he led them through the main corridor and into several other secondary ones.

“No Thayvian bitch?” Rekat asked.

“That’s no way to speak of Lady Ethlinn, Rekat.” The other man lightly criticized, waving one of his hands in front of his face. “She’s not here. Not at the moment; but you can rest assured, she’s coming back later this evening.”

Aniel blinked, poking Rekat’s side with her finger. “You didn’t say there was a chance we’d find her here.” She stated in a whisper.

“I didn’t think we’d be so unfortunate,” Rekat whispered back. “Stupid of me, though; she and Shemal never leave each other’s side for more than a few hours.”

Belken chuckled. “You realize, Rekat, that your arm has been around Aniel ever since you came in, haven’t you?”

If looks could kill, Aniel was certain Belken would have been dead by now; his grip around her shoulders tensed, becoming so hard that she could feel it through the thick clothing she’d been wearing ever since they’d passed the snow-covered Neverwinter. Slowly, his hand fell down and she felt herself grow colder and hollower; plus, her skin _itched_ under the jacket. For every God that watched over the Realms, what was _wrong_ with her? Why had she been so at the edge of feelings, so dreadfully _needing_ as of late?

“Why’s it so cold here, anyway?” she put out the question more to keep herself distracted from her own emotions than out of curiosity, although it _had_ been eating her mind for a while. This was a Castle, was it not? It was supposed to have fireplaces burning around inside and not… those strange blue lights.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Belken shudder; his voice was strained and stressful when he answered. “Hopefully, you’ll live to see. We’re here.” He gestured towards yet another door of the same shiny black material as the one on the outside.

Rekat smirked. “You can leave us now.”

“Want a private talk with the Lady?” the other man maliciously inquired, tilting his head towards Aniel.

“You know, it’s really none of your business,” Rekat chanted.

Belken said “At least you’re giving her the warning.” With a shrug before leaving through one of the multiple corridors which led to the large, round hall they were standing in, but there had been something about the way he’d spoke, something about his face that made the statement look more than the unimportant phrase he’d wanted it to be.

“Warning?” Aniel raised her eyebrows at the thief.

He breathed in; slowly, he began turning to her and Aniel could tell he was scared and shaken… As if there was something terrible awaiting beyond the black door and not just a powerful man. “First, do you think Kalyt is cruel?”

“ _What_!?”

“Answer me, Aniel. Please.” He grabbed both of her hands and squeezed them, almost seemed to clung onto them like beacons of a reality he knew and loved.

And it made a horrible fearful sensation clasp her heart and deregulate her breaths. “Yes, she is cruel. More than me, you, or even the Loviatar Cleric from five years ago.”

Rekat nodded. “Vasjra. Yes, she, too, is cruel, but it’s a devotion-oriented cruelty; Kalyt is like that because she _enjoys_ it.”

Aniel tilted her head to one side. “Pardon me, Rekat, but I don’t see what this is for.”

“Shemal’s worse,” Rekat briskly stated, looking up to her so suddenly that it startled her. “You wouldn’t ever trust Kalyt at a first glance; Shemal, however… Aniel, he can wrap you around his little finger, twist and turn you until your bones snap and you’ll still be thanking him for bothering to take a look at you. All with one smile.”

“Rekat−“

He shook his head so fiercely that all words died on her lips. “ _Listen_ , Aniel. There’s a reason to why he rose up through the ranks so quickly. He holds all of Bane’s hatred, has a temper that makes Talos’s tempests look puny… and yet, because the perfect embodiment of cruelty and a truly vengeful person, both Loviatar and Cyric favor him. I trust Kalyt has told you about his looks – well, don’t let them fool you. Don’t fall for him, Aniel; it’ll just eat you from the inside out.”

Rekat’s words confused Aniel, stirred the strangest things inside her. She knew Rekat was in some sort of pain, but she didn’t know where the source was – her or Shemal or this whole ordeal they were part of. “Why would I?” How _could_ she, anyway? Not that there would be any danger to it either – Aniel felt that there was already something eating her insides.

“Kalyt and Vasjra have and they’re far harder than you.” Aniel frowned and almost immediately, his hands dropped hers and cupped the sides of her face; it was a wonder that, in this frozen land, Rekat could walk around with his fingerless gloves just a regular jacket above his regular leather armor. “Be glad I consider you more of a person than them; do not be offended by it.”

Aniel took a great deal of air into her lungs and let it all out. “Fine. I just don’t get why you’re like this, Rekat; so not you.”

A smile played on Rekat’s lips and it was only then that the mask around his eyes fell and Aniel could see what had been commanding his actions the moment they got closer to this door. She knew it all too well; she’d felt it whenever her life had turned but she had not idea why Rekat would be feeling it now…

Pure, undiluted, _true_ _fear_.

“You’re scared too,” Rekat teased.

“Thanks to you.”

Rekat snickered; he brought his lips so close to her that, for a moment, Aniel _did_ think he was going to kiss her – but all she felt on her mouth was his breath hovering around it, hot and moist, ever so tempting that _she_ almost gave in like she had five years ago…

“Now, undress.”

Her brows went up and her nose wrinkled. Another time, another place and she might just have done it. But _now_? Nu-uh. “The fuck? It’s _freezing_ in here, Rekat.”

He let go of her face and moved to the door, grabbing one of the metal handles. “You wanted to know why it is so, didn’t you? Shemal’s got a bit of a skin problem, actually and, well,” she could see the satisfaction dripping from his words and it was startling, to say the least, “come on. Do it.”

Aniel gulped. She began taking off her cloak, then the heavy lamb-skin jacket and two woolen shirts; the pants fell down next, leaving her with a sideways knee-length split skirt and the black dancing bra.

“You did not look,” she said.

“No,” Rekat replied, pushing the door open and walking into the room; she followed−

And choked on the hot, thick air, felt her feet heating when she stepped onto the boiling marble ground.

Like a desert; like Zakhara; like Hell.

In front of them, in the centre of the rectangular room with dozens of _open_ windows at the side, was a man. Aniel felt Rekat pulling her forward by the hand; the man rose up from his seat – and Aniel noticed the thin sheet of sweat that covered his body.

“Rekat,” he stated. “Welcome.”

The thief bowed down. “ _Lord_ Shemal.”

Shemal nodded, his gaze flicking from Rekat to Aniel; and under it, she quivered, weakened and, unconsciously, made her upper body fall down on a bow as well. “We finally meet, Aniel Dy’ner. Your services have been most useful to me.”

Aniel gasped. When Kalyt had spoken of Shemal, she’d been _understating_ everything in him. Even with the sweat, he was so much more handsome than she’d said, his presence so much more potent that she’d described and his speech like honey…

 _No_ , Aniel said herself, _Don’t go that way._

 _Why not?_ Another voice inside her asked, _Rekat clearly has someone better than you; he doesn’t want you, so what’s wrong about doing it with someone else?_

“Thank you, my Lord,” she meekly whispered. “I am glad it is so.”

She caught Shemal giving her and assessing look of approval, and a little piece of her screamed with glee that he’d liked what he’d seen. “You must be tired,” he said, soft like velvet. “My lady Aniel, please ask Belken to take you to your room; it shouldn’t be hard of you to find him; he’s always around.”

Her senses were so dulled that it took Aniel a while to nod. As she spun round to leave, she saw Rekat’s green eyes, flashing with hurt and her mind sharpened almost instantly - and shut down the voice that told her to doubt Rekat.

 Whatever Shemal was, he was something _too_ bad, even considering all the things she’d seen and been through.  And whatever hurt and fear she’d just seen in Rekat’s eyes… it was true. And the simple thought of seeing that against blistered her heart, rusted her muscles and weighed down her lungs.

She closed the door behind her and quickly dressed; as Shemal had said, Belken was not far away; he was just near the door.

On the other side, Shemal stepped forward. There had been strange disturbances today – something to do with the others and it had manifested through unleashing the burning hell inside him, making it _unbearable_ to be anywhere; even here, in the middle of this cold blizzard, it was too hot and dry for him to be at peace.

In fact, these past five years had been a turmoil. Wherever his opposite was, he was giving him Hell without even realizing it.

But for now… Rekat. And the delicious little thing Shemal had decided to invest on so long ago… Together, united, yet so apart from each other because of what they were. Had she even realized she’d begun to let her succubi powers loose? Nothing better than that to distract him for his scorching skin and dry throat.

“Five years and you haven’t even done her once; you disappoint me, Rekat,” Shemal whispered tauntingly. “Were it any other woman, I’d believe she wasn’t good enough to turn you on but _her_ …” Shemal licked his lips, almost like a child watching the biggest, most delicious cake in the world. “Succubi often have imperfections, you know? When they are born, there’s a freckle or a mole that taints the skin; of course, as they’re temptresses, they want to be flawless and so they change their shape to become otherworldly beautiful, but Aniel… She has never morphed.

“And really,” Shemal squinted at Rekat, the smirk on his lips as disturbing as his tone, "would you even _want_ her to change anything about her? Would you change the perfect skin and the striking features and the tantalizing curves?”

The thief blinked, trying to keep his cool; what was Shemal getting at? What did he want to accomplish by saying this to him? Knowing Shemal and his very twisted ways, it could not be anything good, but…

“Why does it bother you, _Lord_ Shemal?” Rekat hissed contemptuously.

“It bothers me because you know you _want_ her Rekat. But there’s something interfering with the lust, is it not?”

Rekat crossed his arms and looked into Shemal’s steel blue eyes, trying to find a clue to where this was going, but to no avail.  “She’s half-succubus. I’d probably end up dead of I tried to fuck her.” He risked.

Shemal showed him a perfect smile. “Oh, that she is. I can even feel she’s invited you into her dreams already… or you invited her to yours. Did you die then?”

At least now he knew why he’d been having those dreams and why they both had awakened tired and why they’d been so mutually awkward in the morning: Aniel had been reaching out through living dreams and hadn’t noticed it. Which meant that her succubi powers were getting out of control and, Mask be blessed, if he even _touched_ her lips, he could fall flat to the side! He’d almost kissed her five minutes ago, his body not replying to what his mind was screaming. It was not only that, though… It was something else.

Shemal stretched his perfectly muscled limbs with the grace of a panther and yawned. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Rekat. Maybe your next mission will even free you from this little lustful ordeal, maybe not.” His nose creased and the middle of his lips was raised in a snarl. “Now leave. I don’t want you here when Ethlinn arrives.”

Too many things were welled up in Rekat’s mind; he left the room and mechanically found his way to his quarters while something threatened to choke him. He wasn’t _afraid_ of Shemal… but he’d been afraid of something else and it was that _something_ that was taking his breath, his strength and his thought away.

Laying on the bed, little did he know that, in the middle of the brazen room, Shemal was laughing.

 


	8. Rhapsody

**_Rhapsody_ **

_The beautiful, solemn Queen of the White was, for moments, no longer white, but of a dusty shade of dark grey. “Sometimes, truths aren’t pretty, you know?”_

_She chuckled. “Too bad for me that it isn’t enough to make her mine; you’d lose it in an instant.”_

_Gravely, he touched his Queen with the tip of his finger – and she slowly turned pure white again, like the cool, untainted marble that resembled her real skin. “And sometimes, it’s better to let one be touched by the darkness so that she knows she’s strong enough to fight it… As she’s unconsciously been doing all along.” He picked up another piece, moved it and subsequently eyed its new position, carefully, like a parent watching as his child was sent into the dangerous part of the playground._

_“I almost pity that girl,” moaned she, whose head was tilted over her right shoulder, supported by her hand, the graceful jet black hair falling over onto the table, like fine strands of silk._

_“It’s necessary,” he simply stated. After a sight, he then added, “And it’s her will.”_

_She snorted. “I don’t think anyone really wishes to go where you just sent her.”_

_“Her destiny waits her there; her parents wait her there,” he looked at one of the ebony pieces and, as if this was more than a game, his tone diminished to a meek whisper, full of worry and sadness, “and the deva, too… He waits for her there as well.”_

**Eight**

_Contrast_

_Guidance_

_Agony_

 

 

Inside her, Yarija felt something twist and turn, like a worm squirming inside her veins; she saw the Chains on her skin ripple and blood surged amidst the black ink. _Pain again…_ she thought, _The pain’s come again…_

With one feeble hand, Yarija clutched her waist and walked to a tall, blanket-covered piece; she pulled the cream-colored coat out in one swift move and turned her back to the now-revealed mirror’s surface so she could watch the Black Sun on her back… and gasped when the eight rays which spiraled out of the curled Black Sun began moving, her skin soon dripping with blood. Yarija whimpered as quietly as she could, biting into her tongue as her skin re-shaped the cuts to adjust to the movements, the enchanted ink accompanying them. Two rays approached, only to be separated by a thumb’s distance as though, very deeply inside, they _wanted_ to touch but couldn’t; two others fought, intertwined with each other; one became so unbearably hot that Yarija believed someone had just dripped boiling oil into her skin; another began deepening, like rose thorns and needles thrusting into her skin; one – usually one of faintest ones – grew thicker for moments, just before wavering and becoming thin again; and the last one swelled, throbbing, emanating a sensation that was between knowledge and confusion.    

Her shoulder ached with the undulation of the infinities; something in the world was changing and, for a reason, _she_ was the one feeling it. All because her inner darkness was too much for her tiny little body to hold; it was so vast that whenever other darknesses manifested and changed, she felt them resonating within her and her very own core sought to adapt to them.

Inner Darkness was, by itself, a complicated, vile thing. Her own Inner Darkness, though… it was terrifying.

Her eyelids fell in a squint when she noticed a pair of gleaming, sharp eyes reflected in the mirror. “Brian,” she bitterly said, pulling her cloak up to cover her body, “if you do not take that despicable dirty hawk out of my wardrobe, I swear on Bane’s ass that it won’t have a beak to nail worms the next time it’s hunting.”

A door creaked open. “Seriously, Yarija, you’re way too hostile towards everyone.” Brian stated, striding into her room with an extended arm; the hawk fell down to settle in it, its yellow eyes still boring into Yarija’s lithe figure.

She sneered at it, then turned to Brian. “When your opinion matters to me, Brian, I will ask for it. Why are you here anyway?”

“Kalyt and some ranger are due to arrive sometime today,” he informed. “Make sure you’re presentable to meet them.”

“Hah.” Yarija chuckled. “Why would I even care to be presentable to meet _her_?” her voice diminished to a mutter in which scorn was more than evident. “She’s just another woman fawning over Shemal and−”

Brian cut her off, snappish. “And your superior, Yarija. Also, while _I_ may be able to hold the will of killing you, she’s most likely to snap if you act that way towards her.” Truth be told, even though she was capable on her own right, Yarija was like a child with a perpetual tantrum – and Talona help him, if it weren’t for Lord Shemal’s ultimatum, he’d have put an end to them already. But Kalyt…

Triumphantly, Yarija smiled; Brian thought she had an ugly smile due to the fact that her twisted lips were not made to curve up, nor her face meant to raise up while it happened, nor her void, yellow eyes ready to accompany such an expression. “Thing is, Brian, Kalyt won’t do anything to make Shemal get mad at her.”

Brian sighed. “If she sees an opportunity to get a good hit at you, she’ll take the chances. So behave, or I’ll ask Lord Shemal if I can hurt you myself.”

Yarija shrugged; she’d been purposely scarred for at least fourteen years; she was used to pain and if Brian wanted to threaten her, he was going over it the wrong way.

“There’s something else as well,” he added. “About Neverwinter; they’re resisting.”

Yarija blinked in surprise. “Oh?”

“The Shadow Thieves got a pretty strong hand in there and… well, let’s just say they’re not very willing to let any other organization such as us in there.” He made a quick move with his hand and the hawk flew to his shoulder. “Conflicts are getting nastier than I’d expected.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, pondering with closed eyes. “And that was why Rekat was supposed to come along with Kalyt and that ranger of hers: because he knows the Shadow thief methods. Why isn’t he, then?”

“Lord Shemal wanted a word with him before he came, so he was delayed; but he’s still coming and should arrive someday next week,” Brian answered, spinning to face the door. “I’m leaving you now; make sure you’re there once you’re called.” He stepped out and closed the door shut behind him.

Alone, Yarija rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of disobeying,” she sarcastically blurted out; the pain on her back was almost gone now and her skin fully settled in its new rearranged place so, she let the cloak drop; she’d have to clean all that dried blood off her skin soon, but…

Yarija frowned. Something was oddly out of place now… it wasn’t in the Sun, or in the Chains or in the Infinities, but in the Black Wings; because now, their bottom was not made of feathers… but of a field of unknown flowers.

 

 

“Uncle Ammon?”

“Yes, Ilwyn?”

The girl extended a hand to touch the center of a blooming marigold as she asked. “The woman… my grandmother… has she come to tell about that thing?”

Jerro raised an eyebrow at her, but he wasn’t at all that surprised. Ilwyn often knew things which none of them could even fathom, so it was no wonder that she’d somehow _sensed_ what they’d been told to hide from her mother. “You know about it?”

“It’s hard to miss; mom’s soul, it’s… broken. Always has been, but it has this… thing wrapped up around it, always hungry, always trying to eat away mom’s mind. And sometimes,” she gulped down and looked at the floor as if uncertain of what to say next, “sometimes I think that thing is getting into her soul through those holes, but… but…” Ilwyn’s lower lip trembled as she stammered a few times on the last word.

“Ilwyn?”

Her neck straightened and she spun round to face him. “Uncle Ammon, I think that the only reason that’s kept her inner darkness at bay is because whatever her soul is made off, it’s always fighting it; not only that, but that essence… the one which is inside you as well. They’re both fighting but even the best warriors get tired, don’t they?”

Ammon Jerro inhaled sharply. “Someone’s been telling you tragic tales again.”

The girl frowned; Ammon thought that, when she did that, she looked even more like the wretch of her father; and, if _he_ himself got all nostalgic and regretful when he looked at the pendant they’d found in Shandra’s cottage, he couldn’t even imagine how _Firanis_ felt when she looked at her daughter. “I asked for it; mom always gives me sappy ones where everything always ends up perfectly.”

“That’s because your mother doesn’t want you to think those things are not possible,” Jerro noted; the girl approached and sat down beside him.

“Nothing is ever perfect, Uncle Ammon; at least that’s what Lady Lliira told me when she presented Araga to me; and she said that I can’t let mom give up.”

Moments of silence passed; Ilwyn hugged her knees close, her honey brown eyes flicking from marigolds to orange lilies and from orange lilies to marigolds again. “Mom loves those flowers… It’s weird, because Uncle Sand told me some lands used them in… those things they do when people die and go under the earth.”

Ammon took a mental note that someone needed to tell the moon elf that he wasn’t supposed to say such sordid things to children. As for Firanis loving the flowers… well, there had always been some of those wherever she was near. He needed to steer the conversation, though. As interesting as it was to learn about Ilwyn’s abilities, it was kind of depressing to hear her talk about dead people and their funeral rites; maybe he’d softened up while he’d been in these horridly monotonously peaceful Upper Planes, but it somehow wasn’t _right_. “You’re oddly grave for a five year old, you know that?”

Ilwyn smiled. “Whenever I try to be cheerful and play childish games, you complain, Uncle Ammon, so I try to keep quiet around you; you’re too old to be my playmate anyway.” She stuck out her tongue and quickly rose from the ground.

“I’m not _old_!” stated Ammon, his forehead and nose creased; both she and her mother could be so damn stubborn!

The girl innocently blinked. “You complain about everything. Also, you’ve got creases, like clothes do when they’ve just been washed and you take your hand to your back when you get up from your sitting position. _So_ , you’re old.”

Jerro shook his head and sighed. Ilwyn sat down again beside him, legs crossed.

“Say, Uncle Ammon…” the girl took a hand to her chest and sunk her nails down on the soft fabric of her summer dress.

Jerro closed his eyes and groaned. “What now?”

“Why am I feeling something like a worm inside me?”

His features twitched, a quick sense of worry suddenly overwhelming his senses. It _couldn’t_ be… Not in Ilwyn, anyway. “It’s nothing; just all your playtime catching up to your _young_ person.” Ammon masked his concern with that sarcastic remark, hoping the girl wouldn’t notice anything… because if this really was what he thought, then there were some things he’d have to keep to himself for now.   

 

 

“In the beginning, there was mist.

“Alone and lost, a woman moved, trying to find her way out of it; it was cruelly cold, and the razor-sharp wind slashed at her face, made her eyes go dry and her throat sore. She thought she was going to die, frozen by the harsh winter… But amidst the mist, a silhouette moved. It took a step, then another and another until it was close… Close enough that its breath could be felt on the skin; close enough that its voice was clear, deep and, among that lonely mist, comforting.

“ _What brings one such as you to wander around in these parts?_ Its voice – sweet, warm, persuasive – spoke, but there was something else, something eerie about it that could be noticed if you scraped its pleasant exterior. _I… don’t know_ , the woman responded, _I was on my way to Icewind Dale and suddenly there was this strange mist, I…_

“The person extended a hand to her; it was pale, like white irises and glowed like an orb of light, _That’s because a blizzard is approaching. Come; I’ll take you to a safe place. I am Erebus._ She stared at him, uncertain of what to do… but the smile he was giving her was enough to make the world warm, and so she took his cold hand, whispering, _I’m Esmerelle_.

“ _Almost like the jewel stone_ , he said with a nod, _Well then, Esmerelle, come with me._

“And she went. She followed the stranger to a hut, where flames danced in the fireplace and water boiled above it. Gradually, she warmed up by the fire, with Erebus beside her; they made small talk, but she felt something creeping over her, something which clawed her soul and didn’t let go… A call, so strong that made all surroundings seem far away, a call that invoked the mist outside into her mind. Her memories grew foggier and foggier and, when she asked herself _why_ she was here, _what_ had made her seek her way to Icewind Dale, she found nothing but quietude.

“The blizzard went on for days; neither of them went outside, but Esmerelle found it quite peculiar that he’d stocked up with provisions that would last them at least a month. How could he have predicted a blizzard when he clearly was no diviner? And how come his skin never warmed up, even though he spent so much time near the fire? She was troubled by questions, but whenever their gazes locked, whenever their hands brushed, they all were shunned to the back of her mind, secondary matters in a much more important story… Even this day, she still remembers his intense blue-grey eyes, his flaming red hair, the shrewd smile of his perfect lips…

“ _Say, Esmerelle,_ he begun, one day, _I can’t help but notice how you shiver when I touch you… Why would that be?_ Esmerelle gasped and, ashamed, cast her eyes downwards. _I didn’t mean to!_ She apologized; _It’s just… so cold and…_ And, weak as she was, she lost control of herself and began sobbing. Her shoulders slumped and her whole body quivered when she heard him step closer and closer, to stand just a few miserable inches away from her. All over her, Esmerelle could feel his scrutinizing burning her; perhaps he knew the effect of his gaze on her, and so he grasped her chin and lifted her face up, the coolness of his skin counterbalancing the heat in his eyes.

“ _So, it wasn’t a coincidence that you came… and it wasn’t_ nothing _that compelled me to go outside. It was you… And fate._ Her breath got caught on her throat, _Me? What do you−_

“To shush Esmerelle, Erebus placed a finger on her lips, smiling as he did so. Only that made her shiver again but this time, it was due to a queer pleasure. _My cold skin… no one has ever felt my cold skin; no one but_ you _, Esmerelle…_ His hand moved up from her chin to caress the left side of her face; his lips were still smiling, but were apprehensively pursed at the same time, as if… as if he was scared of her! And it hurt her to even think on that possibility! Hurt her beyond reason, beyond the way such trivial matters should take their toll on someone…

“ _There’s darkness inside all of us…_ he whispered, _Sometimes there’s so much of it that it has to be shed some way or another… and sometimes there’s a light which can engulf it._ He sighed; she found herself to be unable to move, to shy away from him, no matter how freezing his skin was against hers… She didn’t understand how her feelings could run so deep when she’d only been with him after a few days, but now, those little details did not matter; he sounded so tormented that all Esmerelle wanted was to hold him close and tell him everything was all right, tell him _she_ was there for him.

“ _I’ve already got rid of a lot of my own inner darkness… So perhaps I can let the rest drown in your light instead of allowing it to be passed into someone else._

“She inhaled loudly, sharply – and he kissed her. At that time, Esmerelle really didn’t care to understand what he’d meant with that whole talk… she fell right into his arms, willingly, not caring that his touch froze her or if she was walking right into a trap… she just hoped his anguish would ease… And so, they spent the night together. The next morning the blizzard was gone and, as Erebus told her, it was because the snow in his own heart had vanished as well.

“When… when you meet your exact other half, you know it. It’s almost instant and it’s something so overwhelming that it may take time for you to realize what that strange feeling truly means. It’s… it’s like a part of you is snapped away, but you’re not empty there; something else fills the hole and perhaps that is why people take much longer to acknowledge the feeling. That’s why hearts break and hopes are crushed: sometimes, we _think_ that person is the right one and, unwillingly, we give him or her a part of ourselves; but they don’t give us anything back, leaving us to feel empty and lonely and _incomplete_.”

A sigh. “Back then…” And another. “Back then, he, Erebus the Cursed allowed a piece of himself to slip… it was a slow, unnoticeable thing, something he’d never, _ever_ allowed to happen before; and Esmerelle, too, let a little part of herself fly away… And perhaps that is why you turned out different, Firanis; because you weren’t born from an incomplete person.”

Esmerelle had been smiling, looking out the window as she’d said that last sentence; now, her look was gradually becoming graver and graver, as if she was afraid of something.

Firanis, on the other hand, was intrigued by several things she’d been told; what was this darkness she spoke of, her mother? And _completion?_ “There’s lots of things I don’t understand. This Erebus… my father, why did he speak of an inner darkness? Who am I different from? And why was this hid from me all along?”

Esmerelle’s eyes bulged out at the sudden trembling of her daughter’s voice; was she on the verge of tears? Or had she just remembered something that made her resolve falter? “You know of curses, don’t you? After all, Firanis, you constantly feel the edge of one on your skin. But, contrary to what you’ve been told, it was not aimed at you directly; it was aimed at your father.” She licked her lips, the pain in her heart greater that she’d anticipated; why would it be so hard to see Firanis? She was over Erebus already and yet… the girl looked so much like him that it was nearly impossible not to think of Erebus, with his beautiful grey-blue eyes and honeyed, persuasive words.

In all four children, hers had to be the only one who was like his mirror… Just her luck.

Esmerelle inhaled, feeling somewhat guilty under her daughter’s unswerving gaze. “As I was saying, the curse you carry… it was passed on to you by your father.”

Firanis frowned and then blinked, stating the obvious. “Curses are not inheritable.”

“They are, when a person chooses to let the curse slip into another part of himself. Your father… he did that four times.” The sun elf gulped; it hadn’t been a problem to tell everything to her companions but oh, Corellon Larethian, the words were so difficult now, in front of the only person that mattered… “When he was a child, your father nearly died; the only way to save him was, apparently, allow his weakness to become his strength. It was risky, but… you would do _anything_ to save your daughter if she were to die, weren’t you? Guerryn and Erebus’s mother, Solynya, did the only thing they could. Half-devas…” she swallowed down another lump that had formed on her throat; Firanis’s eyebrows twitched, but Esmerelle didn’t know if it was in pity of impatience or in understanding, “half-devas are very weak to darkness, but they also harbor some measure of protection against cold and acid and petrification; what happened to your father was that he had to be surrendered to five entities – and each of them gave him a blessing to keep him from dying. The only bad thing about it was that, along with every bless came also a curse.

“When I met your father, he wasn’t under its whole influence any longer, but after I... left him, your grandfather came to visit me and told me the whole story... and how unbearable Erebus’s pain was until he began to shed it... his inner darkness.”

“I still don’t understand how that is possible,” Firanis said. “When we are born, we’re just ourselves; it’s life that shapes us, whether for the good or the bad.”

Esmerelle shook her head. “That only happens when no one’s been tampering with you before. The notion that we’re all equal when we’re born is a scam, Firanis, although the fact that life shapes us is not. And that is why you’re different from the other three.”

The aasimar cocked an eyebrow; this was getting only more and more confusing... just what was expected of her exactly? “The other... three?”

“I believe they have already been mentioned to you by Eleste...” Closing her eyes, the sun elf drew a loud, sharp breath, her fingers making a succession of movements that resembled some sort of protection charm... from _what_ , Firanis did not know. “First, came she, from the springs of envy and delusions; then came the one who’d always be in the summers of Hell, burning everything at his passage; after than one, came the man who’d find himself stuck in the monotony of autumn’s solitude; the last one was her, the winter of life.”

“Me.”

“Yes. You and each one of them bear a part of Erebus’s curse – and a part of the darkness which almost doomed him. After you were born, he was freed from everything which had ever burdened him – and was never seen again,” Esmerelle’s voice trailed away into silence. Firanis heard Sand’s frantic scribbling, Grobnar’s “I’m minding my own business” humming, Casavir’s heavy breathing, the nearly shushed conversation between Khelgar, Elanee and Neeshka and, outside, the sound of Ilwyn’s pure, cheerful laughter.

“ _Know_ you’re more hesitating than before,” Zhjaeve coolly noted, addressing to Esmerelle. “Is it that hard when the child looks so much like her father?”

The corners of Esmerelle’s mouth lifted in, what Firanis assumed to be, a failed attempt of a smile, for the scowl on her eyes betrayed it wholly; the atmosphere had grown so heavy after the Gith’s statement that Firanis thought she could reach out with a knife and cut it in pieces.

“I am here because I care, Gith,” Esmerelle briskly wheezed, “Whether you believe it or not, Firanis was born because _I_ wanted it. Or why do you think ran to West Harbor because it was a choice?”

Zhjaeve’s voice tone was still calm and detached as if she’d been oblivious to the harshness of the sun elf’s previous statements. “ _Know_ there’s always a choice.”

“What?” Esmerelle snapped; maybe she wasn’t as prepared for this encounter as Firanis had first thought after all. “She’d have been dead by now if I’d stayed with her father, or even worse, she’d be like the whole rest of them; or you’d rather I’d never had her?”

“No. I just want you to _know_ that you _did_ have a choice. You shouldn’t lie to your daughter about it as well.”

“What does she mean?” Firanis asked her mother, whose eyes moved from the Gith, still sitting cross-legged in a corner, to her inquisitive daughter, whose fingers here intertwined under her chin, supporting it, and then back to the Gith again.

Esmerelle’s green eyes widened in sudden realization and her tone was raspy, breathless. “You feigned ignorance the first time we talked.”

“How could I be feigning unawareness when I never asked to _know_ about anything? No. I merely kept my knowledge to myself...”

“So you _do_ know about them,” Esmerelle stated with her arms crossed over her chest.

“I have _known_ ever since the first War of Shadow,” The Githzerai spoke lowly from her corner. “The links between dimensions are but mere ethereal threads, and the connections between past, present and future… those are even less noticeable. When your daughter received a piece of Gith’s blade within herself, I _knew_ then, and felt that we would be connected, although the consequences which would lead to such bond were still veiled from my eyes.” She closed her golden eyes for brief moments and opened them again before proceeding with her speech. “I _knew_ not how she would turn out, your daughter, but still I believed in her… I believed she was strong enough to overcome that which had been passed down on her, unlike the other three.”

“And that is why you’re still here, Gith? You’re not like the rest; your home is not in Toril. You can leave whenever−“

 “Three in Darkness, Two in Light,” Zhjaeve interrupted her in whisper, turning to surprisingly lock her dull gold gaze with the aasimar’s misty blue one. “Three it would be when we both and the King of Shadows finally met in the last battle... But _Kalach-Cha_ , we’re still not in the Light. You want to, you fight for it, but slowly, you allow that which you have unknowingly fought for so long to surface. We walk not in the light, but in an everlasting twilight of mist… if things do not worsen and we go back to where we were before. But _know_ … _know_ I still believe you will overcome this, _Kalach-Cha_. You are the sheath to Gith’s blade for no mere coincidence and I still have faith in you.”

This time, there was nothing to break the silence; everyone had gone quiet, waiting for Zhjaeve to continue. 

Firanis’s lips twitched. Zhjaeve had been the person she’d come to when she wanted a wise, balanced opinion or a steady, _believing_ shoulder… Because the Gith truly was the most neutral person she knew and yet… _kindness_ was playing on her voice? Or maybe it was realization, or satisfaction, even? Either way, it tugged at the aasimar’s senses in a good way that kept telling her the trust she’d placed on the Githzerai had been a well-founded one. And if she _really_ could leave, then maybe she just needed to feel released. “Zhjaeve…” Firanis weakly murmured. “If you want to go home−”

“I said we’d both walk in the Light; I won’t leave until it happens.” Firmly, the Gith nodded. “I just don’t _know_ why your mother chooses to deprive you of what you need to _know_ … Not when you’ve proven that you’ve been able to resist your inner darkness for all these years.”

Esmerelle grimaced as though she’d felt the sharp blade of Zhjaeve’s critique slash at her. “I’m not allowed to; it’s as Corellon Larethian has said: _Give her knowledge, but not so much that she won’t seek any more on her own_. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you more beyond what I already have.” She bit into her lip, pensively. “I’m one of the shiradi now, and, unfortunately, it is not my daughter who I’m permitted to give guidance to. I…” She bit her tongue and rose up from her seat to clearly look outside, as if she was seeing something that was for her eyes only. “I have to go now Will you accompany me to the door, Firanis?”

Firanis gasped and blinked. “Oh. Yes, I suppose.”

They both left the room; Firanis closed the kitchen door behind her and opened the one to the outside. “So, _mother_ …”

“I couldn’t tell you this in front of them… It’s something for your ears only and if the Gith knows it already, then it wasn’t by me.” Esmerelle quickly blurted out, her hands shivering by her sides. Her voice faltered; for a while, Firanis thought she was on the verge of tears, but if she was, they never fell. “It’s… surprisingly painful for me to talk about your father in front of you, but it’s something that had to be done by none other than me,” she stuttered a while before being able to continue. “I… I only wanted you to know that you’re different from the others because… you were wanted. _You_ were loved. And that is the reason I left Erebus and went to live with Daeghun and Shayla… But… what is inside you…

“The disease which tried to kill Erebus was something that ate away one’s spirit. So, to heal him, four deities came and touched your father, allowing him to prevail against the illness, but the price he had to pay… That was much too heavy for him. And Solynya, your grandmother who was blinded by the sickening love for her son, suggested something: for him to do the same to other beings, have them carry his burden… And she became so absorbed that all she saw was her son… and that caused her downfall.

“But it’s not for me to talk about your grandmother… Just know that your father – now only a shade of himself, consumed by the dark hunger inside him - followed her advice and just like the four deities that had passed down a piece of them to him, Erebus carried out the same ritual; but he was not a deity; he only could let the blessings and curses flow to people who shared the same blood as he. So, the curse was split into four parts, to assure you’d survive and the four of you - his offspring – still as babies, each received a part. And you, being the last one, are the winter of his soul.”

Somehow, the air felt chillier than usual. “You’re telling me that I have siblings who share this… thing?” 

“No, Firanis,” Esmerelle said, smiling, “ _you_ are different; the other three… they never were loved. And your father, he… when I spoke of you being born of a complete person, it was because your father, he _never_ loved the mothers of your brothers and sister. He never gave them a part of himself, save the ones needed for their children to be born. But, even though we may not realize it, our soul is constantly searching for its mate… and I, as sad as it is to me to admit it, think mine was your father’s.”

The aasimar shook her head, lightly smirking. “Did you even realize what you were getting into?”

“Not at first. Not until I met one of your brothers and understood what your future would be if I stayed with Erebus. I wanted to protect you… and then that whole mess happened at West Harbor and well… You’re still alive and… _yourself_.”

“You sound surprised,” Firanis stated with an arched eyebrow.

“Of your three siblings, two are so far down that redemption would be impossible; the other one has crossed the border, but I think there’s still hope for him; and you, Firanis, as your Gith friend said−”

“Zhjaeve,” the aasimar stiffly corrected.

“Zhjaeve,” Esmerelle acknowledged with a short nod, “said, you’re not in the light either, but believe me, you’re better off than any of them because you still walk the border. And the thing which is keeping you there is that part of your father which was passed down onto you, it’s,” Esmerelle put her arms around herself as an involuntary shiver ran her through, “it’s something capable of devouring your own will and shape you the way it wants. It’s something that is inside all of us as well, but you carry not only your own, but _his_ as well…”

Firanis leaned against the side of the door frame, her features completely fallen under the shadows. “Inner Darkness,” she gloomily whispered.

“Yes. You’ve dealt with evil people before; everyone has to, when we live in a world like Toril... where the people who succumbed to their own inner darkness and became twisted and corrupted, rotten to the very core of their beings are more abundant than they should. People who selfishly keep telling themselves they had a reason to allow their souls to decay so much because their life was never kind to them… those people fall because they never managed to persevere through the tests laid down before them; they fall because they are _weak_.” Esmerelle paused, biting down her lower lip. “So, they take refuge, they apologize for their actions and blame _life_.” She gave a couple of short laughs. Clearly, Firanis thought, she despised people when they grew to be evil. “ _Life_ shapes us, true, but it’s up to _us_ to determine how its lessons should be perceived… and most people tend to choose the easy path and bully those who’re trying to go on with their own existence.”

“What are you trying to get at?”

“ _You_ ,” Esmerelle’s tone suddenly became gentler, warmer, “are not one of those. Even though there’s so much more darkness inside you, _you_ never gave in, you never turned your back on someone… you were hurt by someone – hurt so deeply that the wound hasn’t healed – and yet you let that person go because it was the only way he’d _live_. And he went.” She heard her daughter gasp and saw her take a hand to her forehead but Firanis’s expression was still hidden by the shadows of the doorframe. “And it’s because of those actions that I can say that you are last piece of the puzzle and, against all odds, the one who can break the circle.”

“Circle?” Firanis stammered.

“Your darkness connects you in an endless circle of doom, despair and death. And, unless you want to keep on living in such circumstances, someone will have to break it; and out of the four of you, you’re the only one who can.” Esmerelle then lowered her voice and added, almost only to herself, “In a way, it’s sort of ironical that things turned out this way… It’s as if fate is joking with us by linking you all in a scheme whose end cannot be predicted by anyone.”

Firanis snorted; there was no point in asking her mother about this any further: she knew she’d get no straight answers… somehow, it was all _funny_ to her, albeit in a very masochist way. “So you came all the way here to tell me that there’s something inside me that _will_ bring me down unless I act against it? I’m sorry but I still don’t get it.”

Esmerelle looked sideways and, with closed eyes, sighed. “The war Eleste saw… it’s more personal than you think. I came so you’d know what’s inside you and wouldn’t be surprised if you ever felt it… resonate when you meet certain people; so you wouldn’t be surprised when you finally felt its hunger ravaging you from inside out; so you’d know you can fight it just by remaining who you are now, because…” her voice shook and lowered to a whisper, bringing back that strange ominous feeling Firanis had felt upon approaching the house. “Because, in the end that will be the only thing that will save you.”

Through the shadows, Esmerelle could discern a heavy nod from her daughter’s head, as though she slowly was beginning to let everything sink in so she could fully understand it. It was… painful that she could not tell her everything; she’d _died_ to protect this girl and now, after so many years, when she could truly help her deal with the future, she couldn’t utter a word without having it masked by cryptic messages. One’s nature could be unfair indeed…

 “Why did you tell it in third person?” Firanis suddenly asked, still calmly leaning against the door frame.

“Because, as someone once told me,” Esmerelle smiled; a look of nostalgia crossed her face, looking as if she was borrowing the words from someone she’d heard saying them long ago, “tales are not supposed to be told by their protagonists. And because she was right, I tried to disguise it a bit by telling it this way.”

Esmerelle turned. “Just by allowing me to come to you, it’s proven that the Gods up here… they favor you. But the ones down below… they favor _them_.” With that warning, she began walking away; the call which had reached her while she’d still been in the house was now becoming stronger… strong enough for her to feel agony spreading inside her with every heartbeat – an agony that made her heart sink.

 “There’s another thing I don’t understand.” Her daughter started; Esmerelle’s eyelids twitched; she had to leave... she needed to leave before the pain became so much that she’d break down.

“What?”

“You said I was winter… and I get that part… I’ve always felt cold, but…” Firanis moved, her face no longer in the dark and… Esmerelle’s features were crossed by a wave of astonishment when she noticed her daughter was _blushing_!

“But…?” Esmerelle urged Firanis to continue.

“Well,” the aasimar clasped her hands together in a mixture of nervousness and embarrassment, “it was not only then, but _mainly_ when I was… involved in one of the many incidents which ultimately led to my daughter…”

“When you were having sex,” Esmerelle dryly intervened, eyes half closed; where was her daughter getting at now?

“Yes, but not only… There were times when I felt this rush of heat spreading inside me; sometimes it was just momentary, others it lasted for hours.”

“And?”

“If I’m winter, then why would comforting words – or, you know, kissing and such – make me feel warm?”

Gazing into her daughter’s eager gaze shining under the moonlight, Esmerelle saw true confusion and the most bizarre shade of impatience… And realized Firanis utterly was different than _any_ of her siblings – and, at the same, so much like them.

Silently, Esmerelle resumed her journey out of the small entrance garden. The call was so strong now… she could hardly hear anything else. Firanis looked down, wondering if she shouldn’t have asked that which had puzzled her for so long, but before Esmerelle crossed the fence, she bellowed. “Even the harshest winter has warm days, does it not?”

Firanis smiled and nodded – and her mother replied in the same way but, as she walked away, Firanis couldn’t help but notice that, her mother’s smile had been a marred one and each step she took forward seemed to feel heavier than the one she’d taken immediately before.

And then, she was alone. For some time, Firanis did nothing but emptily stare into the horizon and try to recall everything which had been said to her in the last couple of hours… Firanis had nearly been crying when her mother had told her how she and her father had met… because it was so strikingly similar to a scene of her own past that avoiding the resemblance was nothing but a blind act of foolishness.

And just like that, another piece of past events – her talk with Eleste five years ago - came back.

_“Are you so presumptuous to the point of believing what happened to you was unique?” Eleste spat, interrupting her. “What I saw when I observed you, I’d seen a thousand times before; I know the nature of your feelings, Firanis and I do understand of the pain you’re feeling. Don’t be so close-minded as to even fathom that you’re the only one who’s suffered and who’s made sacrifices. We all did and we all have.”_

Eleste had been right… she fully understood that now, for what it’d meant – people are nothing but pawns which get thrown into similar circumstances so that the Multiverse can test them in the same measures – and see which methods they choose prevail. The premises, the situations, the people… those could vary, but the core of the problem was always there: and it was survival – either of an ideal, of a friend, of the heart, the mind or the body… The only thing that truly mattered was that we’d live to see which other challenges would be set for us on the next day, thus repeating the cycle over and over again.

But the fact that her mother’s story had reminded her of Bishop was not what was really bothering Firanis… it was that, the _thing_ which she’d always felt whenever she was tempted to hurt someone or something so she could end up on top; the _thing_ which had stuck her on Fury’s Heart for three months, weakening her, hoping to drag her down – until she heard the voices of her companions calling her, needing her, wanting her… and keeping the darkness at bay; the _thing_ she felt growing whenever she felt helpless and when she felt scared and afraid; the thing which had penetrated into her soul while she’d been alone and kept her Eldritch Essence from flowing as strongly as it’d been before…

_It’s an ever-hungry beast of darkness and doubt that dwells inside me… And I was sent here because it’d allow my Eldritch Essence to recover faster… which would make the darkness recede and take its claws off my spirit._

Firanis felt a heavy pang of guilt on her chest… That had been why her friends hadn’t told her: when she’d woken up, she’d been weak, fragile and the knowledge of something so big would have devastated her. And today, when Esmerelle had arrived… Casavir had been sad because it was time for her to know; Ammon had taken Ilwyn because the little girl shouldn’t hear this, not without knowing if Firanis would want her to know it or not; Khelgar and Neeshka and Elanee had been arguing because they’d wanted to _avoid_ it as well; Grobnar had done the small talk, Sand had been submerged into alchemy more often than usual and Zhjaeve had been giving her the whole _meditate and focus_ talk…  All along, it had not been the whole Bishop talk they’d been avoiding… Their minds had been far too heavy with the information of what she was and… they’d been evading mentioning this not because they wanted revenge on her but because she’d be hurt.

Firanis took a step back and backed down against the wall of the small hall, slowly falling into a sitting position; she pushed her knees so that she could hug them and buried her head between them. She _really_ wanted to cry, but for some reason which was unfathomable to her, she _couldn’t_ ; like her tears were frozen inside her and were unable to come out. So, she just stood there, with her head hiding between her knees, feeling an immeasurable amount of sadness filling her… Sadness because no matter how Firanis looked at it, the core of her being was moldy and rotten and she’d most likely doom everyone she’d ever cared about.

And every single one of her friends had stayed… even after knowing what she was.

She felt them… Slashes and wounds and scars, every single one of them she’d endured making their mark on her again and again, adding up to the guilt and the sorrow and the now new sensation of an inevitable disaster looming near and engraving them further and further down into her conscience.

And, like a comforting summer breeze, there was a caress on her shoulder and words she could not understand… but still they rung in tune with her soul and she _felt_ them for what they were: soothingly innocent.

The touch abandoned her, followed by the sound of little, light footsteps and a door opening and closing; then someone sighed and said, “In the end, the only shadow that remains is the one we have in our own souls,” Ammon Jerro’s voice quoted Tyavain’s words which echoed on his mind, “isn’t that right?”

Firanis looked up; her eyes felt dry and prickly, causing Jerro’s figure to become blurred. “The girl told you that, did she not? Tyavain?”

Ammon nodded.

“She knew what I was… as did you.”

He nodded again.

“Both you and Zhjaeve had connections to other places that would have allowed you to leave me already.”

“So?”

“Why didn’t you leave, Ammon?” Firanis timidly asked.

“When you summoned Mephasm with my help… remember?”

That had been… The aasimar counted, five, almost six years ago, shortly after they’d returned from the encounter with Nolaloth… She’d gone talk to Jerro to clear out what the dragon’s spirit had said and, between arguments and what not, she’d remembered about his summons and asked the other warlock if she could, _eventually_ summon any of the demons and devils they’d encountered on Jerro’s Haven to help them.

And he’d given her a way to call Mephasm.

_She looked at the devil, urging him to go on. “I believe there is some measure of trust between you and Ammon Jerro, isn’t there?”_

_Jerro frowned at the question. “What are you implying, Mephasm?”_

_“Nothing,” Mephasm said. “But she has a great amount of raw power inside her, Ammon; the only difference, is that she was her own trainer, and never sought teachers beyond this plane as you have.”_

_Jerro’s voice grew cold. “I made pacts, Mephasm; she-”_

_“She has a fountain of power inside her, Ammon.” Mephasm completed. “She needs not make the same pacts you did, nor has she rushed into bargains.” The devil smirked. “In that aspect, you could try learning from her, Ammon.”_

Indeed, that had been the first time she’d talked to the devil when he was under her bindings. “Yes,” Firanis said, “I remember.”

“That was the time I understood that the war against the King of Shadows was not all you were slated for… The immense amount of power you possessed couldn’t be just for that and so−”

“You offered to guide me.” Firanis tilted her head up so that its top was softly in touch with the wall.

“And will continue to do so until you need my guidance no more,” Ammon muttered. “But don’t get it wrong – I take profit from this agreement as well.”

One of the corners of her lips lifted. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream that you were doing it for free.”

For a moment, Jerro thought she was going to get up but much to his dismay, Firanis remained seated, staring off into space, fallen deep into her thoughts; and he thought he knew what was troubling her so and thus, said. “I think you know why they’re all still here.”

From the way Firanis blinked, Jerro knew he’d hit the spot. “Because, even if they wanted to, the way to Toril is blocked because of that I did to get us out of the Vale of Merdelain?”

Jerro grunted. “You know it’s not that. Now get up and go inside. I don’t want to put up with your hungry daughter any longer than I already have.”

Still, she didn’t get up.

Ammon Jerro felt a rush of exasperation crossing him, but suppressed it almost instantly. While Firanis had been unconscious and after Esmerelle had come to talk to them about the aasimar’s curse – and to tell them that they, unlike her, had a chance of going back - , he and the others had been involved in conversation whose main topic was: “what the hell do we do now?”. “We _could_ have left; not just me and the Gith. Everyone but you could have left – and we all chose to stay.”

When she looked up to meet his gaze, her eyes were glistening; when she spoke, her voice faltered. “But why?”

“For every God who’s letting us stay here, _you_ are more annoying than your five-year-old daughter!” Jerro snapped; Firanis’s eyes widened and she jerked her head to the side, apparently scared by his outburst.  Just what did he need to say so she’d get up and return to her normal, calm, confident, bright self? “Do you really need to know the answer to everything? We all stayed; we care. Be happy with knowing that and keep being the way you were!”

Her mouth fell ajar, but no words came out.

“Whatever it is that can eat away your spirit… it’s been kept far all these years. _You_ fought it without even knowing. So, what’s keeping you from keeping on struggling against it? Knowing about it doesn’t mean you can finally give in to it, girl.” Ammon lowly hissed. “Or are you so weak that, at the merest sight of weakness, you go on and throw everything you’ve achieved away? Is that it? Is it weakness−”

“You… care?” Firanis inquired with a raised eyebrow, her tone full of hesitant doubt. “What happened to the whole _I’m only here because I profit from teaching you_ façade?”

Jerro inhaled sharply while massaging his closed eyelids. “I’d gain nothing if you died. And sometimes, your kid is surprisingly refreshing to hang out with.” Was all he said; she said nothing about her suspicions, but her mouth did quirk in amusement. However, Firanis also sensed there was something else he was hiding from her. “As for the others, I’m sure their feelings for you fall between a genuine, selfless friendship and utmost concern. That’s why they didn’t walk out on you sooner.”

Firanis lowered her head in what seemed to be a sign of diffident agreement. He was right. “Perhaps it is so.”

“I’m certain it is so,” Jerro stated, walking to the door which separated the hall from the kitchen. “Now get up.”

She obeyed but raised a hand to keep Ammon Jerro from opening the door; he stared at her quizzically, exasperation at the edge of such curiosity.

 _Everything circles and circles around itself I am, once again, taking comfort in the words of one of the most evil people I know… How twisted can this get?_ Firanis took a hand to her temples and realized that, even though she still felt guilty, something inside her had been set free… And so couple of tears fell down from Firanis’s gleaming eyes, followed by another couple and another; when they stopped, she wiped them out with the back of her hand and smiled at the warlock. “Thank you. Let’s go now, shall we?” she chirpily caught up to him – the contrast to her previous actions so stark that it even startled the older man himself. 

Thanks to the curse, her skin had always been cold. Now that Firanis knew why, now that she knew how much she was trusted and cared for… she’d make sure _skin_ would be the only thing it affected.

 

 

Shemal’s throne room did not feel like the blistering, hot desert it’d been the day before, but still, it was positively warm – enough for her to shed her clothes at the entrance, like the day before. As for the man himself… he was no longer dripping in sweat, his features now completely serious, no longer exuding that bitter layer of agony… Not there was a man languidly sitting on a throne chair, his right elbow propped up on one of the chair’s arms, his head resting on the closed fist  – and that, Aniel realized, made Shemal look like the single most handsomely bored man she’d ever seen in her life.

“Did you sleep well, Aniel?” Shemal asked her; as odd as it was, she didn’t remember his voice as being so... powerfully seducing. Yes, that was what his voice was like: enthralling to a point that it made the succubi instincts she’d taken so much trouble to deeply conceal surface; it made her blood boil, her thoughts to waver and awakened a _hunger_ which ate her from inside out.

His deep blue eyes broke right through her – and she mumbled, in stutters, “Yes, my Lord, I did.”

He smiled; at first, Aniel thought that something was not _right_ with his smile but upon examining him for brief moments, she told herself it was probably just the sheer perfection, the absolute harmony that made it look so disconcerting. “Do you recall when your assignments for me begun, Aniel?”

By then, she’d detracted her eyes from him, to avoid any distractions and somehow dull the throbbing between her legs but the way he said her name made her breath get caught on the back of her throat… it was like a succulent wave of pleasure, spreading throughout her… How could this even be _possible_? “Yes, my Lord.”

“And you do know that I could have chosen any other of you whores, don’t you?”

Beneath the protective layers of lies Aniel spun to prevent herself from sinking into madness, there was one thing she’d never managed to cover. Normally, when people referred her as a “whore”, she lashed out at them, feeling it was unfair for them to judge her without knowing that which had led her to follow up that profession. With Shemal, however… she just accepted that she spread her legs open on a daily basis in order to feed herself or, even worse, _liked_ to be referred as such.

“Yes I do, my Lord,” she said; she heard her voice reverberating in the room… and it was so bland, lifeless and monotonous… it scared her, but it was the only way she could mask the hot rush of lust which was building inside her body every time Shemal spoke to her.

“Why did I choose you, then?”

Aniel stiffened, her eyes huge as she set them on the man sitting a few feet away from her. “Pardon me?”

His cool face became wrinkled. “Answer me!” he snarled at her.

Aniel gulped down; oh Jisan, not even that quick outburst that frightened her to the core made him look less appealing. “I… I always believed it was because of my skill with poisons.” She quietly replied.

Shemal’s throat made a humming sound whose meaning was incomprehensible. His chilly blue eyes, Aniel felt, dug holes on her head with all the heavy scrutinizing. Just what was he trying to read her for? It was so unnerving, to be observed so! And yet she felt her spirits rising because he was not only _bothering_ to look at her, but to look for the details.

“Could be only that, yes,” Shemal confessed, albeit in an almost condescending manner. “But there are so many other people who can do that job.”

“Not among that brothel, though.” Aniel quickly bit her tongue after the sentence, felling as though she’d screwed up big time just because she’d said something which was not related to his question.

His head left the perch which was his closed fist and his eyes fiercely - and quickly - locked on hers, making her feel like a prey cornered by its hunter. His voice, too, didn’t help the feeling to ease – it was no longer enshrouded by a dull boredom, but by some sort of sadistic amusement. “One brothel is a very… limited place; but you’re certainly aware that, had I wanted, I could’ve left you to continue with your chosen profession and pick any other whore from any other brothel just because she was skilled in poisons – many of you are. Perhaps it’s a tendency you all like to pursue? Yes?” he paused; she took the opportunity to finally catch up with her breathing, which had been stuck on her throat ever since she’d last spoke. “Now, think a little harder, Aniel, and tell me what makes you so unique among the dirty low life scum you were taken from – unique enough for _me_ to have so much trouble to the point of even allowing you to see me.”

She knew, by his tone, that she had to answer his question… Aniel was aware that the way she looked was enough to make men grovel, but aside from that… she was not overly smart nor a wise woman… hell, she wasn’t even strong! Aniel had never thought feelings could be touched or smelled – but right now, when she found now she wasn’t able to come up with a decent answer, she had the sensation that she reeked of fear… a fear that was still not enough to ease the longing she was feeling whenever Shemal spoke – even if it was only to insult her.

 “So?” Shemal squinted, pressuring her.

Well, it was probably worse if she _didn’t_ answer. “I’m half-succubus, so I guess it’s made me pretty easy on the eyes.” Aniel said; Shemal was silent, but there was something in the way he was smirking that made her quickly add, “And I can dance.”

His smirk broadened. “Yes you can. While it is true that you looks are pretty much evident,” at this compliment, a wave of heat enveloped Aniel, making her feel literally on fire, “it’s your shadowdancing that is unmatched.”

Aniel made a face at the ugly bombshell she’d been thrown. She hated dancing; she’d liked it once, but after the djinni incident, she’d only danced when forced to as it reminded her too much of home; plus, she’d never really _tried_ to dance well.

“Why?” Aniel asked, feeling bold enough to overstep the boundaries of “I ask, you answer” Shemal had created. The only thing she’d put effort onto was in learning about poisons; so if _dancing_ was what made her exceptional… it was a cruel let down.

“Why what?”

“Why _dancing_?”

Shemal indolently rose from the throne and stretched his limbs. The only thing Aniel could associate that image was to a dream; did he even notice his tunic was loose on his torso and showed most of his well-defined, yet lean muscles?

With the grace of a stalking panther, he moved towards her; Aniel felt her jaw drop, her eyes to bulge out… but she couldn’t keep her cool, not when he walked in her direction with elegance so tantalizing that it became hypnotic.

“Why the surprise?” he was so close now that Aniel could feel the heat emanating from his skin. “When you dance, so do shadows; they glide, fly, whisper and shout at your command. It is quite beautiful to see… even Rekat thinks so.”

Rekat’s name was a blade which had been driven into her heart and was now, very slowly, being twisted. It just _hurt_ too much to think of him, especially after allowing Shemal to enthrall her, to seduce her…

“I see it affects you, Aniel.” He had now bowed his head down slightly, only enough to whisper into her ear. “How can it be? From what I was told, you two are not close… not physically, anyway.”

His breath tickled her ear, sending a delicious shiver down her spine; but while her body coiled in delight, something else screamed in denial, told her to back away and _run_ … and then, a touch - the hottest touch - sliding up and down from her waist to her hips.

She felt an arm snaking around her waist and a hand grasping her chin, tilting her head up so she could look fully into those Shemal’s cool dark blue eyes that contrasted so much with his blazing skin.

“Well… are you?” Shemal asked, his teasing lips gliding across her cheek.

Aniel made a sound with the back of a throat that was between a moan and a grunt before replying, “No, we’re not.”

The knife twisted again after she’d heard herself pronounce the sentence… it somehow made it feel more real and… she didn’t want it to be.

 “I see you’re disturbed,” Shemal condescendingly noted, his mouth now scraping across her forehead, “is it because you wanted more out of it, Aniel? Aren’t the dreams enough?”

Aniel gasped at that. _How does he know?_ She asked herself in disbelief. And, as if reading her mind, Shemal answered. “I know because it is in your nature to behave that way… When your body hasn’t fed on the emotions of sex for a while, it seeks those emotions by other means… it craves them, wants them, needs them. In fact, spend a long time without them and you’re dead.” He pulled back to stare her fully in the face and her body complained at the absence of the light touch of his velvet lips. “So, you resorted to dreams, where he was all too willingly to give you that which you yearned for. Although I have to admit, it is appalling of Rekat to allow you to fall so far as to need to recur to _dreams_. But alas, it’s your fault, dear Aniel.”

Her throat was dry when she tried to speak; Aniel gulped down once again, moistened her lips with her tongue and asked him, in a very hoarse voice, why she was to blame.

“Why, you’ve always been feeding off from sexual emotions, whether you were aware of it or not; from what Belken told me, you never lacked costumers. And then, you were forced to work with Rekat… must’ve really screwed your senses because it made that hunger within you grow and grow so much that, when it was required that you used your… well, let’s call them “special bedroom talents”, you were merciless.”

Shemal seemed to have noticed she wouldn’t be remarking on his last sentence, so he seized the opportunity to continue, apparently quite amused at the stunned expression she was wearing. “So beautiful and yet so ruthless…” his hand cupped her cheek in a nearly tender way. “Flawless skin, provoking curves, perfectly chiseled features; I’m sure that even if they knew how much it would cost them, all the men who fell for you would do it all over again.”

Aniel felt that the knot on her tongue loosened enough for her to intervene again. “What do you mean, fell for me?”

Shemal pulled her closer – and her body inflated with the fire, the lust, the necessity to ease that very dark appetite which had been building inside of her. “Why, my dear, so involved were you in devouring their feelings… didn’t you even notice that they died after you were done?”

All her breath was stuck on the back of her throat now as she gawped at him.

“You really _didn’t_. But Rekat, he did; he saw everything and the way you sated your hunger must’ve certainly disturbed that frail spirit of his.”

Aniel could’ve sworn there was a hint of disdain hanging from his voice; if it was that, though, it was gone when he spoke again, his hand slowly making its way to the back of her head, his nimble fingers combing her hair. “Poor Rekat… he wants it and so badly but he just won’t give in to what his body so abnormally covets. I really can’t figure out why, but I reckon there’s something else mingles with it, besides basic lust…” he chewed at his bottom lip and Aniel found herself shuddering even at that nonchalant gesture; what was it about this man that made her so vulnerable to all his movements, no matter how slight and small they were?

His lips curled up into a smile. “I think I got it.”

Aniel raised her eyebrows as though asking him what; he laughed at her, pulling her even closer. “Now, it wouldn’t be fun if I told you… but it’s ironical that you, my dear, asked him for the only thing he cannot give. Pity. You’re such a pretty little thing, Aniel; it’s a shame that you’re all centered on _him_. What is it that drove you to chase after the Mulhorandi, anyway? He’s not particularly handsome nor charming… he’s not even got the hunky physique women so often find attractive. Oh, you’re frowning; obviously you think differently so, Aniel, indulge me and reveal what Rekat has that makes him the core of your desires.”

His lips were now so close to hers that his breath was burning her mouth. Aniel did not know if it was the delight of that or the fact that she lacked an answer yet again that kept her silent for what had to be several minutes. Nails dug on her skull and she shrieked in agony – or was it ecstasy? – as they sank deeper.

“Answer me, Aniel. I’m not in the mood to wait.”

How could Shemal sound so cool and detached when his fingers were threatening to pry her head open? “I… I… d…don’t… k…know,” Aniel stuttered, her eyelids fluttering closed. She thought she moaned – although due to what was unknown to her – and Shemal’s fingers eased back and fell onto her naked shoulder; from their moistness, Aniel could tell without looking that there was blood on their tips.

“That’s right – you don’t. And that’s what makes it so interesting,” Shemal declared in what was, Aniel thought, a vicious statement. “No matter how hard you try, you cannot deny your succubus nature… and it is conflicting with your other feelings – which is why I can feel you’re soaking wet just by being near me and yet, whenever I slander Rekat, you’re disturbed – even though you know he’s a wasted case; after all, you’ve already proven to him your kisses will not harm him, have you not?”

She was so shaken that tears prickled her eyes. He knew… he knew _everything_. How was it even possible? How could he know so much when she’d never seen him until yesterday? How could he know of that kiss, five years ago, when she’d make sure no one would see it?

As if he was answering her thoughts, Shemal said, “I know everything. It is for no little reason that I am second only to Fzoul Chembryl.” He sighed. “Now, Aniel, that we’ve finally cleared everything,” she wasn’t sure about what he meant by everything but she wouldn’t be asking either; she felt that question would only incur on more pain, “I will tell you of my plans regarding you.

“You see, in Yartar, where you’ve already been, there are certain… people who are opposing our subtle rule; and they’re being quite a nuisance, I must say. Their leader is a renowned Paladin of Tyr – Rimal is his name.”

His fingers casually resumed the combing of her hair and Aniel found her whole body responding to their rhythmic movements. Apparently, it was what Shemal wanted, because his mouth broke in a lopsided smile. “Thing is, the man does not want to heed to us and keeps meddling in our affairs, thinking he’s doing everyone a favor. Vasjra herself has tried to get to him, but it’s been in vain: the man won’t even get close to her enough to be captured and properly disciplined. So, I began wondering… what better fate for busybody Paladins then to make them fall by the hands of a comely woman?”

He paused; Aniel felt that he would not do anything if she said something now. “You want me to make him fall?” she asked.

“Not just _fall_ ; that is far too common. He will sense how dark your heart is – people like him always do. What I want is that you tease him, use him, make him want you to the point that his dreams will be consumed only by your presence… want you so that his body will be hot and hard at the merest thought of you.” At this point, the hand that had been on her back begun descending to take a firm grip of her buttocks and Aniel was trying her best not to moan. “Make him submit to you, make him _say_ he wants you… And when he does you _will_ give him what he wishes, but only after he’s tame enough not to try and smite your little shrunk black heart.

“When he’s finally yours, Aniel, in both mind and body, you will shatter his world, kill him and make him _pay_ for the stone he’s been on my shoe for so long.”

Then, out of the blue, came the single most powerful kiss Aniel had ever received; Shemal’s soft lips covered her own with an animal ferocity and his tongue made its way past her lips, searing as it flicked against hers; one hand kneaded at her ass while the other – originally on her head – closed around her left breast, massaging it so strongly that it _hurt_. She felt utterly powerless as he kissed her like that, so small compared to his greatness that she wondered _why_ he needed her to do a job of seducing someone in _Yartar_. But gradually, that feeling vanished and she began responding to the kiss as the need and the hunger began growing, overwhelming all her good senses. She wanted more; she _required_ more. A kiss, however potent it was, was not even nearly enough to relieve what her body craved.

But Shemal wasn’t giving her that satisfaction; he pulled back and threw her a derisive smirk while she was left with her body aching in desire. By kissing her, he’d proven that the most powerful weapon of a succubus – her kiss – was rendered to nothing against him – and that, Aniel thought, was something he’d wanted her to know. And if he thought that’d affect her, he was wrong.

Shemal waved a hand dismissingly. “You leave tomorrow; since he’s going to Luskan, so while you still have ground in common, you and Rekat will be traveling together.”

Aniel’s lower jaw trembled at the mention of the thief’s name. Every time he’d been mentioned, it had been as if there was a sight of a clear sky amid a misty afternoon – but it had vanished so quickly, suppressed by her agonizing, selfish desires and brushed off her mind. Every time Shemal had mentioned Rekat, she’d felt that she had to back out and leave him, but Shemal’s heat, Shemal’s touch, they all made her stay.

And now, after the kiss, hearing Rekat’s name again…

Hastily, Aniel nodded and spun round, dashing to the door. _Stupid… I was so stupid…_ she slandered herself as she opened the door and, after crossing into the next room, shut it behind her. Rekat had warned her, told her of how Shemal could wrap her around his little finger… And she’d given in anyway. She’d _drank_ his every word, savored his every touch.

“Aniel?” came a voice, deep and with the slightest edge of hoarseness.

She looked at the source, slowly, like a scared child who thought to be opening a closet filled of monsters.

“Aniel?” Rekat called out again. “You went to see Shemal, didn’t you?”

She managed a brief nod.

“Figures. You didn’t put your winter clothes on.”

He reached out to grab one of her hands; when his calloused fingers – so unlike Shemal’s perfectly soft ones - brushed across her skin, Aniel’s heart skipped a beat.

And she realized she’d been broken.

 

 

“One of the pillars to the perfect occupation of the Sword Coast by the Zhentarim,” Kalyt declared, apparently full of pride, “Luskan.”

Bishop replied her with a sarcastic snigger. “Your conquest will crumble then. This is nothing but a cesspool of despair now.”

“Well, yes. That is why it much be cherished so.” Kalyt smiled at him, still irradiating triumph. “Now come, ranger, Brian is awaiting us.”

As the warrior woman led him through streets and alleys, Bishop came to know that being back in Luskan repulsed him so strongly that he was about to throw up. Before, he’d hated it because he felt submissive, chained and weak; he still felt that way still but now, adding up to it, was Luskan’s own misery – which would not be pleasant to _anyone_ to see, The once proud city was still wallowing in the disgrace from the disaster that had been the Second War of Shadow; there were beggars in every corner, pleading for the dirtiest scrapes of food; drunken men challenged each other in the hopes of a couple extra gold coins; despaired women cried around in the streets – tears that mingled with the seat and the mud and the muck on their faces. It was as if Luskan had been corrupted by its own actions – and everyone who’d taken a part in them was suffering from it.

Not that he cared. When it came to Bishop’s opinion, Luskan could be swallowed by the earth, burned to the ground or destroyed by demons; its people could die from plague, starve to death or be broken by some other nation which took interest in their petty space; anything that brought pain upon Luskan would make him very, very thankful that it’d ever happened. 

When they reached what had possibly once been one of the Wizard Hosttowers, the soldiers bowed down to them.

“Lord Brian has been expecting you, Mistress,” they informed in unison, opening the doors behind them.

After _lots_ of stairs, the doors to the of what Kalyt had called “the Luskan War Room” swung open and they strode past the threshold. Bishop thought it was quite big – the dark wooden table had to have at least fifty chairs around its square surface; rich velvety curtains were draped across both left and right walls – thus fully neglecting the room of any of the light of the moon, which had been fully shining outside; various chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting down a caramel-hued glow to that illuminated the whole room. Compared to this one, Crossroad Keep’s was nothing but a tiny, meager cubicle.

At the far edge of the table, by the lit fireplace, stood three figures: a massive one, belonging to a green-skinned orc with what had to be the most twisted and chaotic jumble of teeth jutting out from a scarred, sneering mouth – how could nature make things _that_ loathsome, anyway?; in the middle, was a lanky man dressed in green robes, a hawk perched on his shoulder, his face covered in a perfect mask of neutrality; the third one, was mid-heighted – it barely reached the middle man’s shoulder – and was covered by a heavy black cloak and hood.

“My, my Brian, I’d never thought you’d be able to seize Luskan, much less what you’ve done with the place.” Kalyt’s high-pitched tone of fake thrill echoed throughout the room. “Impressive, that you control everything in this shithole already.”

“Kalyt.” Brian nodded, his expression carefully unbiased. “So nice of you to come.”

A snort came from the hooded figure. “To you, maybe.”

Kalyt’s mouth split open in an ugly smirk; it was a division between surprise and hatred. “And what is this? A little fly buzzing around our heads? Since when do they know how to talk anyway?”

The cloaked woman – at least Bishop assumed it was a woman, with the acute voice tone and all – swayed a hip to one side and placed a hand on it. “Since Shemal specifically told you not to harm them.”

Kalyt gave away a mirthless short laugh. “He said to maintain you alive only, Yarija dear… he never _purposely_ stated that you could not be _harmed_. After all, he does that to you himself, does he not?”

The other woman hissed, but before she said anything else, the middle man – Brian – sharply held out a hand to shush her.

“Yes, keep a leash on the hound,” Kalyt insisted, spitting each and every one of her words, “good thing you had the sense to force her to cover her face, lest we’d all be already dead by having to stare at that ugly face of hers.”

“Kalyt,” Brian patiently called, eyes closed; he seemed to be trying to rein in his temper, “please do not complicate things further. You’ve already given me a headache so, if you please, Prarg, summarize our status to our newcomers.”

The orc stepped forward. By then, Bishop considered becoming bothered for not being asked his name but quickly gave up on the idea; Zhentarim people always seemed to know everything anyway.

But what was more surprising about them is that, when it came to battle plans, everything just seemed flawless. They’d seized Luskan almost immediately after Black Garius fell and, when it came to their plan to conquer the Sword Coast, the city itself would be a prized possession due to its strategic position: next to the sea, in its confluence with River Mirar and near Neverwinter which, apparently, was still _not_ in the Zhentarim grasp… a fact which would be, evidently, corrected due to the fact that the Zhents had already taken Longsdale, Yartar and Mirabar – and those three cities, along with Luskan, made it impossible for Neverwinter to trade with anyone else but Waterdeep – unless they wished so, of course, which was why they still maintained cordial relations with the “untaken” city.

“The only problem with that accursed place,” Brian, who was massaging his temples, interrupted the orc’s speech, “is that the Shadow Thieves have sunk their daggers deep into its core and refuse to pull them out.”

“Plus, they keep us from scouting their lands,” Prarg stated, “the Stinky thieves.”

Upon hearing this, Bishop’s lips were thinned into a straight line; the Shadow Thieves had acquired power because of Firanis… even after her death, her presence could still be felt, even _out_ of Neverwinter; and _that_ managed to bother him.

“Well,” Kalyt said in a condescending tone, “Shemal figured so. That is why we have Bishop here.”

The hooded woman grunted as though she found something funny. “What, now you name them after chess pieces? Or maybe _you_ haven’t got to nickname him at all… five years around him, still keeping him… he’s still walking straight and does not seem disturbed by the abhorrent sight of you…” she rolled her index fingers in circling motions. “I’m wagering you didn’t even get to fuck him once.”   

Kalyt was quick in her reply; she drew a dart and threw it at the hooded woman who, in an equally fast movement, dodged by kneeling down. The dart still hit the upper part of the hood, however, forcing it to go down and reveal her face.

It was round and pale – so pale that the veins could be seen – but with heavy shadows around the void yellow eyes as though the woman hadn’t slept for months; her mouth was black, twisted down, and the lips were full and round; the eyebrows were slightly angular and the pale orange hair was cropped unevenly: some locks reached her shoulders, others were halfway down and, in some parts, it was possibly an inch or two long.

Perhaps the woman could’ve been beautiful once, without the darkness that surrounded her face and with a proper hair cut; but right now and with that frown adding up to it, she looked frighteningly ugly.

“You’ll have to do better than that if you ever want Shemal to look as you as a mere field warrior, Kalyt,” she mocked, hatred obvious on her voice.

“Fuck you, Yarija.” Kalyt snapped, grimacing.

Bishop’s eyes flicked from Kalyt to Yarija, who was smiling; to Bishop, her smile was even more horrible than the orc’s – who was, apparently, greatly enjoying the little dispute between the two women. But, if one took only a single, brief glance at her, despite how hideous Yarija’s smile could be, there was something in her, something in the way her cheeks dimpled... something made her smile was exactly like Firanis’s. He could not see why, though; they were nothing alike. This woman looked half-dead and Firanis had been brimming with life… And Firanis’s smile… he remembered that she smiled all the time and frankly, it did piss him off because it was just a superficial act so people would think everything was okay with her; still, forced or not, Firanis had a pretty, kind smile, not this abhorrent teeth-baring thing Yarija did… And that was not to mention that, while Yarija had rendered him speechless because she was so ugly, Firanis had been able to do the same because she was beautiful.

“My last warning; the next one of you who moves a hand or even talks to the other about something that has nothing to do with the mission dies,” Brian menaced. Kalyt grunted in displeasure and Yarija’s brows came down in a very disappointed look. Something about the man made them obey him like puppies and, as long as it kept Kalyt’s whines silent, Bishop couldn’t really complain. “Good.” Brian said. “Now, let’s see what can be done about Neverwinter. Yarija, what did the Ambassador tell you about the Shadow Thieves?”

Yarija began looking at her nails – black, too – as she declared. “Axle had been talking to Nasher a lot lately; looks like he went off to warn him about our intentions of invading the city.”

“What else?” Brian asked.

“They’ve been strengthening the border between Neverwinter and us – and, from their smuggling operations, are preparing to strike steel with steel.” She sighed, rolling her eyes. “From the looks of it, we’re going to have to wait until Rekat comes – then, we can send him and the Bishop over there,” she pointed at him, “to sneak into the city by routes they’re not covering.”

Brian patted her on the back, making the orange-headed woman coil away from him. “See, Yarija, it’s not so hard after you give it a try.”

Yarija squinted at him and, with a wrinkled nose, lifted the corners of her mouth in yet another one of her attempts at a smile. And Bishop finally conceded what he’d been trying to shun out of his mind… D _efinitely_ , there was something about her made him immediately think of the aasimar.

And _that_ too, was the other single thing that bothered him that night.

 

 

The air shimmered, curled and twisted in front of her before lightning struck.

Tyavain extended a hand and let it stand there, on the air, less than an inch away from the shimmering portal, felt every single strand of fate warp around her limbs and tugging at them, playful children waiting for her to start the game…

And the voices… the voices _roared_ , dared her to take a step forward, with the Baatezu saying _Your mother awaits, child_ , and the Tanar’ri contradicting with _Your father longs for you, sweet thing_ … And not just them, but another one, telling her she needed to cross the threshold between planes because _someone_ else was waiting for her.

Tyavain wanted to scream, but to do so would attract unwanted visitors… people who’d make her stay, people who’d loosen the destiny which had been calling her so persistently for these past seven… And she couldn’t let that happen. She _had_ to go; she _knew_ she _had_ to go.

“Julian?” she called out the boy behind her, her voice now merged with thousands others.

“Tyavain…” he replied; she knew he was sobbing and wanted nothing but to go back and comfort her friend… But that would make her linger… and she could not afford to.

“I’ll be okay, Julian,” Tyavain whispered. “Just… tell my aunt that I’m sorry, but it’s the only way.”

“Don’t go, Tyavain,” he pleaded.

For moments, her will faltered, but she leashed it again before she ruined everything. “My brother, too... Please, tell Thoque I’ve gone to search for mama and papa. He will understand.” She heard Julian approach. “Don’t come closer, please.” Her voice was but a whisper, mirroring how weak a small part of her – Tyavain – felt; but the other three stood strong and allowed her to order him to maintain the distance. “I have to go now, Julian.”

She took a step forward and inhaled. A hiccup reached her ears, silencing all the voices for moments and she allowed herself a brief sideways look at the dark-skinned boy who was her friend.

His dark eyes met her icy blue ones and she smiled. Slowly, the voices began growing louder and, before she stepped into the portal, she heard the smallest one – Tyavain’s – take control and say, “Julian, please don’t cry.”

The portal closed, leaving the boy gaping at it while tears streamed down his cheeks; seconds after, someone emerged into the stage of the playhouse, breathing heavily.

“I… I tried to stop her…” Julian said between raking sobs. “But she wasn’t Tyavain anymore… She didn’t listen… She didn’t…”

The person – Tyavain’s aunt, Amianna – approached him, amber eyes very wide, mouth ajar; Julian knew she could sense the residue magic of the portal.

“Tyavain’s… gone?” Amianna was in as much shock as he was, her voice no longer like a limpid river, but a raging ocean instead.

He nodded; beside him, Amianna bit down her lower lip so that, instead of a loud cry, only a soft moan was heard.

“She says she’s sorry, but it was the only way… she could find her parents,” Julian told her what Tyavain had ordered. “Where has she gone to?”

Amianna ran the back of her hand over her eyes, where tears were daring to cross the border to the outside. “How did she do it, Julian?”

“We were down here… I was showing her this new spell I’d learned and Tyavain was practicing on the piano and then… her eyes were red and she… she… she said it was time for her to begin her search and started speaking strange words,” the boy whispered. “I was scared and tried to hold her, silence her, but she… she lashed out at me!”

He sobbed again; after a while, Amianna grasped his hand and squeezed it. “What else, Julian?” she insisted.

The boy gulped down. “Then the portal appeared and… and she went!” he cried. “Where has she gone to, Lady Amianna?”

Amianna’s amber eyes were cast down on the wooden floor of the playhouse’s stage; Julian got the feeling she didn’t want to believe anything of what he’d said. Their gazes locked and the woman replied in a feeble murmur. “To the planes. Tyavain’s gone to the planes.”

Then she broke down, like he had and it was the only time Julian saw Amianna Delryn cry in front of anyone.

 

 

 


	9. Intermezzo: Half, Wants, Return

**_Intermezzo_ **

****

_He looked around the board, his fingers hanging above each of his White pieces, dawdling for an undetermined amount of time, finally stopping over one, surrounded at all sides by all his pawns except for one single square..._

_He hadn’t touched this piece in a long, long while…_

_Then, in a resolute gesture, he reached for his Queen of pure White, the one from which his whole game depended on and grabbed her. Funny, he remembered this feel of a soft cold… and it’d also been a long while since he’d felt that, much longer than the time it’d been before he decided he was going to move her._

_His Queen… Poor thing, always in that constant strife people called “Life”. She’d already been tested but now… now she’d be target to the worst predator of all…_

_In a more sure grip, he moved the piece forward to face off her Ebony enemies and, in a roaring voice said, “Is is time.”_

****

### Nine

_Half_

_Wants_

_Return_

 

It is a common notion that the speed of time is measured according to your mood; when you’re enjoying yourself, it’s faster; when you’re not, it’s painstakingly slow. But when you’re used to having the latter thrown at you… the speed with which time goes by you stops mattering. It just passes and you don’t notice.

It was like that to Aniel. She could hardly believe it’d been two years since she’d arrived Yartar alone to serve under Vasjra and seduce some man Shemal had designed. The weirdest thing was, she’d never had problems when it came to get someone into her bed before; she knew those games all too well. But… there was something else intervening; something… she did not understand.

She didn’t dwell much on it, though. When Belken had recruited her into the Zhents, he’d said she’d be free of her old life… and she was. Before, she had to answer to the repulsively make-up covered matron of hers and spread her legs open on a regular basis to let the costumers have their way with her. Now, the fat hag probably still had her entrails swimming in the infamous sewers of Baldur’s Gate – _and_ she only needed to provide a shag for this man or the other… the ones necessary to assure their deals always worked out on the Zhentarim’s favor.

Aniel actually felt a triumphant wave of revenge trill through her spine when she reminded herself that most of those men had died. She had to give Shemal credit for letting her know they were _dead_ and not asleep as she’d first thought when she’d been leaving the room.

However, despite the fact that she reveled in those men’s demises, something was still amiss. Something that made the whole Rimal deal a hell lot more complicated; and the assassin truly didn’t know what it was. No matter how much she mulled it over her head, everything was going perfectly, like Shemal had told her to do.

Maybe it was Vasjra’s fault. The woman was clearly too blindfolded by her submission tricks that she could not see how subtle the games of seduction must be played and it was thanks to her that Rimal had learned Aniel too, belonged to the Zhents... took the half-succubus two months to even get him to _threaten_ her little black heart with a thrust of his holy sword.

By then, there was no point in denying her affiliations; Vasjra thought so as well and decided they could talk in public, right in front of Rimal’s eyes. It was then that Aniel began getting the impression that the Loviatar priestess wanted her to fail… And Aniel knew exactly why. She also knew there was _nothing_ that could summarize how much Aniel hated Vasjra, but that was an entirely different subject. For now, she had to do the half-drow’s bidding and put up with the half-burned man whose leering had been driving her nuts for two years.

“This is the one,” Forlend informed while pointing to a door in the corridor with a heavily scarred finger. “You remember what the Pain said?”

Aniel sighed and, in a mockery of Vasjra said, low and raspy, “Get inside. Talk to him. If he doesn’t keep up the bargain, kill him.”

The man nodded and bid her “Good luck,” as Aniel’s hand rotated the doorknob; soundlessly, she slipped inside.

“Toran?” she called out with a voice which was hoarser and sultrier than usual.

The man’s massive figure turned; he wouldn’t have been considered really ugly – he had narrow, dark brown eyes, a round, normal-sized nose, slightly protuberant red cheeks and broad lips - but the deep gash on his left cheek gave it all away, making him look more like the backdoor weapon smuggler he was rather than the weary traveler Vasjra said he was posing as.

Frowning deeply, he scrutinized her from top to bottom. “I didn’t ask for a whore,” he grunted.

“You couldn’t afford me anyway,” Aniel remarked, quickly adding, “I was sent by Pain Vasjra.” afterwards, before the man could take a breath and get what she’d said.

“It’s a whore sent by another, then,” he mumbled. “I already said your master: Twenty thousand gold is too few. I’m not settling for anything less than forty.”

Aniel inhaled and let her hands caress the sides of her waist before resting on her hips. “You’re not being reasonable. The weapons you sell aren’t even worth fifteen thousand; Vasjra’s just being generous and is already assuring you have a profit margin of five thousand.”

“I’m not selling the weapons at their base price; your priestess _knows_ that no one will do so unless they’re desperate.”

She batted her eyelashes at him and her full lips curled into a lopsided smile. “I believe I’ve already stated you _will_ still acquire a small profit from the deal, haven’t I?” 

Toran pursed his lips and squinted at the woman in front of him; there had to be a reason why Vasjra had sent someone like _her_ to bargain with him, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “No.” he said. “I’m not selling you Zhents my weapons for that half-assed price. Go back to your mistress and tell her that if she wants a deal, it’s forty thousand or nothing.”

Suddenly, when their gazes were locked in some sort of stubbornness contest, Toran noticed how big and unnaturally intense her eyes were; the irises had appeared to be black at first but he could now discern hints of very dark green in them, as though they were dark olives… and he couldn’t look away from them. Then, she made a sound with the back of her throat – something between a giggle and a grunt – which sent shivers down his spine.

“It’s only a difference of twenty thousand,” the woman’s voice was now dark and sultry and it seemed to caress his ears with its soft music.

She took a step towards him. When Toran had first seen her, he’d thought she was beautiful; now, the word was absolutely meaningless, because, with all of the scorn and condescendence gone from her features, all the ugly wrinkles they invoked were gone and without those, she was just, without any exaggeration, _perfect_.

Toran shook his head in an attempt to make the clouds which had blurred his vision go away. “As I said, I didn’t ask for a whore.” He had been aiming for a strong, commanding tone, but his body betrayed him and all which was heard was a breathless whisper.

She took a step closer. “But I am not a whore; whores are filthy and desperate and cheap and work in brothels. While _I_ ,” she flipped her hair around her; it, too, had seemed black at first, but it was in fact, a very dark brown, “merely like to see my customers fully satisfied with their arrangements.”

She was only a couple of feet away from him, enough for Toran to drink in her exotic perfume and get lost in those tantalizing curves that not even the loose strapless shirt could hide. He breathed in – and was taken aback by how _hot_ he was just by looking at her; he breathed out and then in again, repeating the sequence several times to try to calm himself; for a moment, he thought he’d succeeded and could even give her a shaky, “You’re not worth that much”, but she laughed – the most alluring, crystal clear laugh he’d _ever_ heard – and rendered his resolve completely useless.

She closed the distance between them and touched his neck with her fingers, causing all his blood to pump harder and faster; he felt her breasts grazing his chest with each breath she took, and it was exhilarating. Toran tried to find a reason _not_ to give in, to remember himself why he’d agreed to meet with Vasjra’s envoy… but there was nothing he could come up with that could be more important that the woman in front of him, smiling sweetly as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. 

He must’ve moaned something unconsciously, because she laughed and, in that luxurious, deep melody which was her voice, she crooned, “Please… call me Aniel.”

Toran’s hands made their way to caress the smooth skin of Aniel’s; her back arched at the sensation of his rough touch and her lips – her full, blood red lips parted in a silent gasp. Aniel nibbled his neck; Toran thought his veins would explode and that his heart would give away; her tongue trailed up to his jaw and she slowly bit his chin, making his whole body weaken at the way she was teasing him; her hands moved to his chest, tearing apart the fabric of his clothing before her nails dug deep in his torso and moved down to scratch it.

Finally, their lips locked. Toran felt an immense thrill overpower him, taking control of his body, his mind and his soul – it was so strong his heart skipped a beat. And her blood red lips, feeling like velvet against his, moved at such a meticulously slow pace that he had to hold his breath to keep himself from exploding; then, there was her tongue, languidly stroking his own in a sweet caress…

Her nails dug deeper and their mouths were pressed tighter and her tongue moved further…

The next beat his heart skipped was so strong that, in just an excruciating second, Toran felt it give away and, still feeling that overpowering pleasure from Aniel’s kiss, he saw her pull away and her lips – those full, blood red lips – twist in the most perfect, innocent smile just before everything went black and, in his final moments of consciousness, Toran realized… he was dead.

Aniel’s smile turned into a grimace as she dropped the man’s limp body onto the ground. Doing things such as these had been gradually growing easier to her in these past two years, as though she was not attached to something, as though she was freed from some sort of responsibility… and, of course, because she was now _aware_ of what she could really do.

“Forlend!” she called out; her elven partner strode into the room just seconds after, shaking his head as he became aware of the dead body on the floor.

“He didn’t think our proposal was good, did he?” he asked.

Aniel shrugged. “The bastard got too greedy; I had to go for the Plan B.”

Forlend sighed, reaching to his belt with one of his scarred hands. “So, it’s the head?”

“I don’t think his associates will take us for real if it’s something else,” the half-succubus disappointingly noted, her gaze wandering to the man’s crotch in a way which mingled disgust and hope.

“Help me move him onto the bed, Aniel,” he asked.

Aniel sneered and made a dismissive movement with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to feel his greasy skin on my anymore. Do it alone.”

He sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing; The man lifted the dead body and placed it on the bed before pulling out a backpack and, in one clean, fast movement, sliced off Toran’s head; his nose creased – or at least Aniel thought it did… it was always hard to tell what was wrinkled and what was not in Forlend’s burned complexion – and put it inside the bag. “If it’s of any comfort to you, we _are_ going to have to chop off his whole body,” Forlend declared, pulling out a second backpack. “We can’t leave a headless carcass in here; it’d only bring trouble.”

“And we’re tossing it out in a nearby river afterwards?” Aniel inquired, squatting down by the bedside with a knife in her hand; she proceeded to cut off the arm by the elbow and then by the armpit with a somewhat content look.

Forlend smirked while he imitated Aniel’s work on the other arm; he couldn’t help but notice that even though Aniel was splitting the man into little pieces, she had not touched _any_ of his skin. “I don’t know about you, but I think that just in case they don’t believe us, we could also present the body as a proof the guy’s as dead as it can get.”

Aniel blinked at him with an absolute aura of guiltlessness , but as much as Forlend admired how beautiful or how starkly in contrast it was with the face she’d been wearing minutes ago, it didn’t linger. She furrowed her brow and, completely soundlessly, she got up and jumped to the door, which she opened by millimeters and… Aniel nearly laughed when she saw Rimal standing in the corridor.

She checked on Forlend to see if he’d already packed up Toran’s remains; he gave her a quizzical look, folding the bloodied blanket and placing it inside the same bag as the head. She turned to the door and fully opened it to reveal one of the city’s Paladins standing on the other side of the threshold.

The change in her behavior was so sudden and blatant that Forlend tried not to gag; Aniel was still smiling but it wasn’t a sneer – it was a pleasing smile that only by itself made Forlend’s bones ache in desire; her eyes, too, were different, seeming to be bigger under the long eyelashes which batted several times.

"I knew you were up to no good..." the man whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Forlend, go back to the base. Tell Vasjra I've found a friend."

Rimal didn't stop Forlend from leaving; in fact, the Paladin’s figure was as stiff as a board, saving for the times when he took long, deep breaths in. As Forlend made his way down the hall, Rimal and Aniel’s gazes were still locked and they were still in the same places; however, Forlend still caught, from the corner of his eye, Rimal lunging towards Aniel, pinning her up against the wall, arms caught by only a single hand of his above her head. She wasn't fighting at all... instead, she looked up with coy black eyes and a pout, "You're rough on the ladies, you know that?"

"Shut up, you vile..." he ordered, but his voice faded away when he felt one of her feet crawling up his leg. Forlend felt his breath catch on his throat; in two years, he’d never seen Aniel looking nor acting like that. Sure, he knew what she was and what she did but seeing it was a whole different thing from just imagining it. He half-tumbled, half-walked down the stairs, his whole body shaking due to what he’d witnessed and he ran back to the Zhentarim base, hoping the image of such a deadly seductive Aniel wouldn’t hang on to his mind for long.

Upstairs, Aniel was now leaning against Rimal while whispering into his ear, "Paladin, you saw nothing... You don't know what Forlend carried inside his backpack. You know you can't hurt me, lest you'll be the one who's arrested for not putting me up to a fair trial."

She pitifully tried to wriggle out his grasp, but he pushed her against the wall, even more roughly, their bodies pressed together... he could even feel her firm breasts under the loose shirt. He begged for Tyr to make the lust go away, but Tyr didn't listen, and soon he felt his member grow firm at the closure of their bodies.

Aniel smirked. Her game was playing well... It was late in its schedule, but still, it was all Vasjra’s fault. But no matter how this had been delayed or how hard the half-drow had tried to ruin it, Rimal was _almost_ eating on the palm of her hand... "Say it." she murmured, her lips close to his so that he could feel her breath on his skin. Unwillingly and taken by surprise, he released her and took a few steps backward, "Say it," she repeated, her voice steady, walking towards him, her black eyes haunting.

Rimal was at a loss of words, when she lifted her chin and whispered "Say it and I'm yours," again, taunting him; he felt sweat dripping over his forehead, his member pressing against her thighs...

The corners of her lips rose up to a smirk and Aniel could see that, no matter how sarcastic it was looking, Rimal found it to be as beguiling as her most delightful smile. But he _still_ wasn’t saying he wanted her... And even though she was sure she could have him right now, Aniel knew that Shemal wouldn’t be happy unless she got that saying out of the Paladin’s mouth. So, she took another look at him and left, her hips swaying more than usual. Sighing, Rimal fell back against the wall, wondering if Tyr was testing his faith when he'd made this woman cross his path.

 

 

Her mother had often warned her to stay away from the Lower Planes, from the Blood War, from everything that involved devils and demons. She really didn’t know why; she was always feeling the taints, speaking to her at every moment, taunting each other inside her head... so, how could it get worse?

But once she’d finally stepped through the portal which led into Hades, pain stronger than ever overcame all her senses and the girl fought the need to fall on her knees and scream, louder than she had ever screamed before.

It was like… having her mind ripped off her and, still feeling it, having it split in two; on one side, there was the Baatezu blood calling, and, on the other, the Tanar’ri heritage screaming. And those two parts which, while in Toril, had only fought in her head, were now stretching far and wide across the infinity of the Grey Wastes of Hades and bringing down their strife upon her with all that unbounded magnitude.

Tyavain shook her head, trying to focus her will away from the fight: she needed to find her parents but... for all the Gods, it hurt her so much! Her head throbbed as her weak body tried to fight off the taints which were pulling her in opposite directions. The girl tried to focus her sight but that too, was rippling in disturbance, and all she saw was a blurry, vast grey area with shadows moving everywhere. Her insides churned, twisting and turning, twisting and turning…

Oh pretty one, who’d say you’d be so foolish… Any other plane and this wouldn’t happen, hissed the Baatezu.

Smart enough to pick a neutral plane among all the hells… Anywhere else and you’d be lost, stated the Tanar’ri.

A coughing fit seized her and, following it, came the metallic taste of blood. Tyavain’s eyes widened as she realized the Blood Wars were shredding her from within. She could sense her conscience – her sanity – fleeing her at a terrifyingly fast pace; desperately, Tyavain sunk her nails into the sides of her head as though that would keep her good sense inside, but it just slipped further and further, drowned in all those hideous, tainted voices of the Blood War…

Her lips moved; her legs carried her away. She ran and ran, seeing all the forms of shadows bellowing and stepping out of her way, like she was something they wanted but could not touch… A part of her pulled towards them, but the other gave away vibes of repulsion… So she kept running and her lips kept moving and Tyavain didn’t know anything anymore, only that she needed to obey what a part of her was ordering her to do but, at the same time, could not because the other one was commanding the opposite.

In the fever dream that was her sight, one shadow remained still; the taints shrieked; it didn’t move. No part of her seemed to believe this was possible, so she kept on moving forward, as it eventually would move out of her path, like all other demons and devils had.

Except that it didn’t.

She bumped into it, hard, and for moments, her eyes were unclouded and her mind clear, but it all went back to that strange cacophony when she hit the ground, stranded…

No… not back into that mess… Even though there were still the voices of the taints, they’d been reduced to whispers and the only voice which spoke loud and clear was her own…

It was not of the Tanar’ri. It was not of the Baatezu. It was simply Tyavain’s.

She scrambled up to her feet and looked up; her lips parted as she drew in deep, calming breaths – and when she saw the figure against which she’d collided, her very own lungs paralyzed and she gasped because could breathe no longer.

Skin that was brown and dull and scarred and wings charred to the bones – bones which were yellow and cracked at several places; a face was like the one of a masterpiece statue, so handsome it almost seemed unreal; white hair, crisped at the ends by the burning fires of another layer of hell. And eyes… eyes that were dark brown – almost black -, contemptuous eyes that stared at her in something between curiosity and hatred…

And still, despite the disdainful way in which he was staring at her… despite the dull skin and burned wings, Tyavain saw that in front of her was a deva which could only be here by some cruel mistake fate had made.

He squinted at her; in her mind, the murmuring taints told her things and Tyavain began seeing his essence little by little and in that strange, unique language which had shaped the universe, his true name formed… It spoke of so many things, so many betrayals and yet, of an ironical twisted goodness which had never been understood…

It was so beautiful that Tyavain smiled.

His eyes momentarily bulged out, as though he hadn’t been expecting her to able to do something as simple as a smile; then, sneering, he turned his back on her and walked away.

His true name was on the verge of her lips, and she was ready to use it to order him back but… she couldn’t. Tyavain wouldn’t let her; he walked further and further away and Tyavain’s voice told her to bite down her tongue, which was so prompt to speak his name… Tyavain sobbed and cried as her mouth was filled with blood to keep the name which spoke of betrayals and a chance for redemptions away from being spoken.

He kept on walking and with him went her sanity, her good-sense and her tranquility. The voices came back so strongly that the pain was excruciating; she screamed and screamed in agony, falling onto the ground as her back threatened to split open… Tyavain felt something pulling it, mercilessly perforating the skin to drag her lungs out.

Screeching, she hugged herself and whatever was being pulled out slit her back… she begged for it to be over, but the constant hauling sensation remained, agonizing and strong.  

The girl wept on the floor, feeling the low thudding of her aching skin and muscles, seeing nothing but the dull shades of grey which painted Hades and hearing nothing but the taints… The only tiny fragment of her rational thoughts told her she was going to die there, pathetically sprawling on the floor as she tried to maintain her conscience alive …

   Something touched her, gingerly… It felt like the touch of a feather, grazing her skin as it danced around in the wind… no, not in the wind… in a cooling, calm breeze which made her feel lucid and silenced all the voices in her head except the one that was her own.

Whatever had been pulled out of her back was freed and, very carefully, whoever was holding her picked her up and turned her body so that her head was facing the grey sky. She saw the deva’s face, strained with a look she could not identify; he forced her to stand, holding on to her as the ache on her back intensified. Tyavain carved her nails onto the flesh of his chest, and muffled a cream. The lack of voices made her think more clearly and that had somehow made the pain more real.

He whispered something into her ear, in a deep, rich, melodic voice, “It’s just your wings.”

Tyavain dug her nails deeper and looked behind her shoulder to see that a large lump had formed on her back and that her dress had been cut to help it spread more freely.

A river of blood erupted and, amidst the horrid feel of being split open, Tyavain saw that jutting out from near her scapulas were a pair of large, black feathered wings.

She remembered whimpering; she remembered the tears; she remembered she started breathing heavily and that her eyelids began feeling like they were made of lead. The last thing she remembered before they fell was that, for the first time in years, she was falling asleep with only her own voice speaking his name in her head.

And so, once again, she smiled.

 

 

Yarija’s face was fleetingly touched by a grimace, somehow making it even uglier than it was; her small hands moved to her shoulder, grasping it tightly as she tried to even her breathing.

Beside her, Rekat groaned. “ _Again_!?” he complained. “Are you sure you’re well enough to do this?”

“Why, you care?” Yarija hissed, arching her back as though there was something there which was making it itch.

“No, you’re just slowing us down.”

“Oh, and who was the one who overslept—”

“Will you two stop it?” Bishop snapped. “I’m trying to listen.”

Yarija rolled her yellow eyes, muttering under her breath, “Says the chess piece.”

Bishop grunted to keep himself from snapping back at her; Yarija was an insufferable, _insufferable_ woman who brought up arguments about _anything_ she didn’t agree with; she complained a lot and fell into frequent tantrums about nothing special – like a big, emotionally screwed up nineteen-year-old child - which was what Bishop sincerely thought she was.

Still, he couldn’t shake off the first feeling he’d had when he’d first seen her; it was a major hindrance because regularly being reminded of someone you’re trying to forget is a pain in the ass, especially if you’re trying to keep as cool and as detached as you can get, but the more Bishop stared at Yarija, the more he saw Firanis.

He sighed heavily. “Rekat and I are going to get into Neverwinter through here,” he explained, pointing to the nearby bushes, “there’s a cave underneath; it has a passage into the sewers. We’ll be waiting for you inside at the meeting point.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever; remind me again why you can’t get seen?” Yarija threw back a lock of uneven hair.

“I’ve told you,” Bishop angrily wheezed, his patience running thin, “that _I_ am to remain invisible to the Shadow Thieves won’t know we’re with the Zhents, which will simplify things a lot when we’re scouting around the Neverwinter area.”

Yarija’s squinted pale yellow eyes lingered on the ranger for a moment before she declared in a wispy voice. “I have the feeling you’re hiding something, Bishop.”

Bishop opened his mouth, but it was Rekat who spoke, “Your feelings do not concern us, Yarija. Just go away and do your job; we’re already late.” The ranger waged that the thief was probably running out of patience, much like he himself was.

She threw him one of her smirks, which sent shivers down Bishop’s spine; he still did not know how nature could create someone who could make an expression that ugly. “Meeting point, then.” Yarija said, turning away from them to enter the city from the front gates.

“Why is _she_ our spare Ambassador?” Bishop asked, striding through the middle of a small bush in the direction of the hidden passage to the sewers.

“Torio had to stay in Luskan and the only person among us who has _any_ diplomatic skills besides her and Brian is Yarija.” The thief bluntly replied; apparently, to him this was an overly simple matter.

Bishop had to see it was the truth. Kalyt would most likely try to cut Nasher in half; Prarg would get even farther and go for the whole Castle; Rekat couldn’t be seen for the Shadow Thieves and as for himself... he couldn’t be seen in Neverwinter; he’d be hanged for betraying the city in the Ward of Shadows... No, not _Neverwinter_... That would have implied that he cared for the future of the city and really... he’d never been concerned about that. If he’d betrayed something, it’d been Firanis and Firanis only; the city was just a consequence that had come along with it.

The sad fact was... that little consequence he’d never paid attention to was hindering him now – big time. But then Bishop reminded himself that if he hadn’t done what he’d done, he’d most likely have ended up like the little group which ventured into the Vale of Merdelain: dead. And from where he was standing, _that_ was a much bigger hindrance than the one he was facing now.

“You may be right, but I still think Yarija’s going to scare off half the court,” Bishop commented.

Rekat arched one of his eyebrows at him. “Why, because she’s ugly?”

As he veered to the right to continue down the pathway, Bishop nodded. The other man chuckled softly, a hint of pity and condescendence on the low, mild laugh. “That is the truth, but haven’t you noticed something else about her?”

“She makes me cringe whenever she bares her teeth in an attempt of a smile,” Bishop half-heartedly admitted.

Rekat exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yes, but that’s only if you examine her closely; try only nothing more than a glimpse at her and, for a moment, she’ll seem... different, as though she might be a pleasant person.”

The ranger remembered that, the first time he’d laid eyes on Yarija and had _glimpsed_ her smile, she’d immediately reminded him of the former Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep. So, he nodded in agreement.

“Well,” Rekat went on, “I don’t know how she does it, but when Yarija wants to... she can be quite persuasive. The weirdest thing about it was that I only noticed that when Aniel said that _If you add enough honey, even the saltiest dish can become sweet_ one time, when we were stationed with her.”

“If food burns, you can’t make it sweet; it’ll always taste like burned food no matter what you do.”

Rekat smirked; Bishop didn’t quite know how to put it, but Rekat too, despite being the possibly sanest person he’d been around these past seven years, had something _off_ about him – and that much was evident in the way his light green eyes seemed to darken to contrast with his dimpled cheeks when he smirked.

When the thief spoke again, his voice was even deeper and hoarser than usual, giving the sentence a much eerier tone.  “Oh, but I never said Yarija got sweet. She just turns merely edible.”

Bishop’s lips tightened, dubious, but he said nothing. Little did he know that, in the gates of Neverwinter, a guard was experiencing the effects Rekat had just mentioned.

“Who comes?” the man asked in an authoritarian tone.

“Yarija Thress from the Hosttower of Luskan,” an acute, brisk female voice replied from under a heavy hood. “I have come due to an appointed meeting with Lord Nasher.”

“Show yourself.”

Very small, thin, pale hands reached to the hood and pulled it back; the guard slightly jerked his head back in an impulsive reaction. He remembered her; she’d come to Neverwinter before, along with Ambassador Torio. But it _still_ did not dull the effect she had in him… Lady Yarija was all black and white – save for her hair, which was a pale red and her eyes, colored a dry yellow – and the smile she wore was still as disconcerting as ever. He’d always assumed it was because a dimpled smile did not match her dark lips nor the dark circles under her eyes.

He let her in. It was impossible not to. The aura of… whatever it was… she irradiated touched him and stirred something; like that odd gaze of hers reached out and plucked some hidden emotion from his very depths. And he wanted _nothing_ but to please her.

She walked by, her tiny hands pulling once again the hood over her face; the guard realized he’d never seen Yarija Thress without the black cloak.

He shook his head. It was _not_ his business. He knew he should have interrogated her further, but it just made no sense to suspect her; plus, it wasn’t like someone with hands as fragile and as impotent as hers could do a considerable amount of harm, right?

Yarija scurried away from the main gate, aware of the guard’s eyes still on her. Her insides churned uncomfortably - a heavy pain made her stomach sink and she had to take a hand there to steady herself.

 _Not now…_ Yarija thought, _I can’t afford to be weak when I have to meet Nasher; or otherwise I won’t be as convincing as I need to be._

Her back began hurting again - burning, even - and she felt blood trickle down her back. Not good; she’d have to clean before entering the Castle; the Nine would demand her to take off the cloak.

The guards at the Castle asked her the same things as the one at the Gate; once she’d stated her purpose, they let her through.

Inside, Yarija went to a secluded corner – something normal, considering you’d have to hand everything up to someone before you could meet Nasher and some people needed things from their bags - and rummaged her backpack until she produced a handkerchief out of it and ran it through her back, unsurprised to see it stained red once she was finished; she tucked it away and went further on into the Castle.

“My Lady,” another guard called, extending a hand towards her. “You know it’s needed.”

Yarija sighed; there wasn’t much she could do and, although this measure did diminish the chances of someone taking a weapon to a meeting in order to murder Nasher, it’d have been completely useless if the assassin was truly a pro. Like Aniel. Yarija didn’t like the Zakharan much, but she had to admit, the woman had to be one of the best at what she did; not even once in their time together had Aniel got caught or even fallen under the suspicion of a murder.

She handed him her tattered backpack and watched as his eyes fell to the cloak; she shed that as well and a sudden chill ran through her spine. She was wearing her usual travel clothes – the strap of black cloth draped around her breasts, a knee-length skirt split on both sides and black boots of hardened leather which went only slightly above her ankles – showing pretty much all of Shemal’s artwork and hardly protected her from the cool Castle interior.

“My lord Nasher is awaiting you,” the Guard merely said, stepping out of the way.

Her small nose wrinkled. This one must’ve already met her, for he had not been disturbed at the cuts painted black. Perhaps it was better that way; she hated when people gaped at her because of the tattoos.

She strode into the throne room; Gods, she hoped Nasher would give her a bedroom. She stank from all the traveling through the wilderness; also, while neither Bishop nor Rekat had seemed to feel the need for a bath on the journey, _she_ had. But alas, she’d been tied to them and their limitations towards ordinary travel routes and could not stay behind – which made it pretty impossible for her to even wash her face.

Those two just had no regard for personal hygiene; Yarija felt slightly curious as to how Aniel had put up with Rekat smelling so bad for five years. Or maybe she hadn’t had to at all. Aniel had always bathed after her missions and Rekat had never been far from her _before_ and _after_ she returned.

Those two were strange as individuals, but together? Yarija had _no idea_ what went on between them. Most people said it was their plain need of sex – Aniel being a half-succubus and all and Rekat being so cool that only someone like Aniel could warm him up – and Yarija had to comply that there was a lot of sexual tension going on there; but she also thought there was something different to it; plus, from the way Bishop liked to piss Rekat off, and from the way Rekat had reacted, she could guess that the thief and the assassin had never done it together.

 _Mmmm…_ Yarija mused. _Maybe what they say about succubi kisses and their true “food” is true after all. And Aniel feels so strongly towards Rekat that she just won’t risk his life over a shag; and he, on the other hand, cares about her so much that he just won’t allow her to risk her sanity because of him._

Yarija felt her brain pause. The whole concept was so stupid she had to laugh internally. Aniel was selfish and Rekat was detached; there was no way they’d care about what happened to each other unless their own lives were involved.

She stopped in the center of the room and bowed her head. “My lord Nasher. Members of the Nine.” Her words were courteous and her gestures meaningful but inside, all she wanted to do was tell them all to bug off. She hated the falsities of the Court.

“Lady Yarija Thress,” Nasher addressed her. “You look weary.”

Her face begun to contort in a snort, but Yarija got hold of it immediately, keeping it neutral. “My journey was not an easy one; I haven’t had time to rest yet.”

“Then the matters you’ve come to discuss must be quite urgent,” one of the Nine – Sir Nevalle, she believed – commented. Yarija turned to him and smiled as lightly as she could.

“They are, Sir Nevalle. There would be no other reason for me to present myself in this dirty state were it otherwise.”

The man beside the Knight shifted in his position; Yarija frowned. Strange… she’d never seen him before, hence he was not from the Nine – or Eight, as she’d like to call them… apparently, something made their minds fantasize that one of them was still alive, even though she’d been buried under a pile of rubble. What was her name again? Firanis Hlaetlarn? Yes, that was it. Torio had spoken about her once or twice while they’d been discussing Neverwinter’s past. What was it she’d said about her? Oh yeah…

 

_“Firanis? Too trusting to have a role as big as hers; stupidly forgiving to never hold a grudge; naïve to the point believing people were incapable of bad things; so innocent that she made the worst possible choice towards her bedmate. Needless to say, in the end she ended up betrayed. But I’ve got to admit, she handled it quite well – I had expected her to break down crying and fall into a depression, but she went on and fought anyway._

_I guess that, in the space of five minutes, her whole world changed; and she was forced to change along with it. Not that I got to verify that change – a whole temple collapsed on top of her and if you ask me, the only reason they didn’t find a body was because they were all so squished under the stone that they turned to dust.”_

 

That had been it, yes, although Torio had never specified who betrayed her; not that it was important. Whoever man she’d bedded only to have him flee her, he clearly had made it so that people would forget him and was probably away from Neverwinter at the moment. Knowing Nasher and Neverwinter’s past decisions towards betrayers, if he ever returned, he’d be hung.

Yarija blinked, returning to the present; her eyes moved from the unknown man to Nasher, expectantly.

“I am afraid our audience is going to have to be delayed, my Lady Yarija.” Nasher exhaled through his mouth; mentally, Yarija grunted. She could _so_ see he was pretending to be bothered by this. “Sergeant Bevil has brought to us matters than cannot wait.”

 _Oh? So what? My matters can’t wait either!_ She formulated in her head, but bit her tongue to prevent those words from coming out. She needed to be on her best behavior if she was getting Nasher to say what she needed to learn. “I understand, my Lord.” She smiled. “When will you have the time to see me again?”

“I will have a room within the Castle arranged for you, Lady Yarija,” Nasher declared; Yarija actually felt a wave of relief wash over her – at least she wasn’t going to have to argue with Bishop and Rekat for a shared room. “You will be called again tomorrow.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I will be expecting your courier, then.” She bent down her knees and bowed down her head. “A rest of a good evening to you, my Lord. Members of the Nine.”

Yarija pivoted and turned to leave; the more distance she put between the people in the room and her, the most her insides begun hurting; it was never easy to allow her inner darkness to reach out to other people, but it made her job a lot easier – even if what came afterwards was not pretty.

Outside, a stocky maid awaited her to guide her to her room; she followed eagerly. She asked Yarija if she needed anything to which the Zhent replied “A bath.” The other woman nodded and, after opening a door, said servants would be coming with hot water for her to bathe.

Yarija’s sight was blurry by then, but she managed to walk straight into the room and lay down on the soft bed; when the water came and filled the large rectangular depression in the privy, she took off her clothes and sunk into the bathtub, allowing the steaming water to relax her sore muscles.

She’d have to leave to meet Bishop and Rekat soon, in a backroom of the Moonstone Mask; but right now, she was unable to move. Her inner darkness was still swirling inside her, making her head ache and her skin to tingle as if sharp needles were being jammed into it.

 _Everything hurts…_ Even in her thoughts, Yarija’s voice couldn’t rise above a whisper. _My feet, my legs, my stomach, my breasts… my head feels like it’s about to burst. My eyelids… they’re heavy and my lips feel swollen. Why do my lungs also burn?_

A cry of pain escaped her mouth. _Oh Gods, oh Gods… Beshaba’s misfortunes, why must you_ all _fall on me? How many of Talona’s poisons run through my veins? How much of Shar’s darkness is welled up in me?_

A spasm overcame her body; her chest jutted forward and Yarija bit back a scream of pain; tears ran down her cheeks, cool against her now hot skin; the blood also came, seeping from all the cuts: the chains, the sun, the infinities, the wings and the flowers. It tainted the water red.

But she had to endure; she’d always endured. Just… not like this. Not so strong. Someone connected to the meaning of the cuts must’ve also been changing at the same time she’d been using her inner darkness to make people see her the way she wanted; to cloud their visions.

She got out of the water, unable to stand the scent of blood which floated along with the steam…

Images flooded her mind; she saw darkness, but it wasn’t of the typical kind. No, it was the darkness of a void. A void which dared to consume everything. Someone screamed and the _pain_ inside Yarija increased. It had been a weak and uneven scream, as though its owner was shattered.

Her legs gave in and she fell onto the ground. It was getting harder and harder to breathe at each passing moment.

Then…

Another voice called, singing. The world shifted. The emptiness shrunk. The pain faded.

And Yarija was left alone, her mind completely blank as her eyes stared off at the ceiling. Something big was coming. She could feel it.

 

 

“You are out of focus,” the shiradi calmly stated.

Firanis grunted, eyelids only opening a few millimeters so she could look at Melynia, sitting cross-legged just a few inches away from her. “I am.”

“Why?”

“I feel… a disturbance,” the aasimar whispered. “In myself.”

“How so?”

“My soul, it… is twisting. The cold grips around my heart and I feel that… I am being called.”

Melynia arched a brow. “What does it call to?” she asked.

Firanis sighed heavily. “I don’t know. It feels like something is tugging at my depths; like something needs me somewhere to ease its pain.” Her blue eyes met the shiradi’s. “It’s got stronger in the last year.”

The other woman fell silent, pondering. “Maybe it is time for you to go; eight years is a long time for a mortal, Firanis.”

Firanis shook her head and tried to smile; her cheeks dimpled, but the smile was not there. “I can’t believe I’m twenty-nine already.”

“People usually only don’t believe their age when they’ve spent a great amount of time dawdling.” Melynia squinted, but her voice was still light, teacher-like. “Do you feel like you’ve been dawdling, Firanis?”

The aasimar gulped and, after taking some time to consider, nodded.

“Why?”

“I don’t know… My whole life seems to have stopped these last eight years,” She admitted, worried. “The only thing that’s really changed-” she held her breath, her forehead creasing in realization of what she was just about to say.

“Is your daughter,” Melynia completed.

“Yes. Ilwyn. She’s…” this time, her smile came naturally, spontaneously. “She’s everything I could have asked for. I owe all my friends a great deal, but without Ilwyn, I’d be…” she struggled to find the right word; when it came out, it sounded much more dramatic that she’d intended, “lost.”

“She’s your anchor,” The shiradi assessed. “You lost one long ago; she’s the one you found to replace it.”

Firanis’s eyes widened in an amazement which was mirrored by her voice. “Wow, Melynia. You really _do_ know me.”

Melynia laughed heartily. “I’ve been training you for nearly eight years. Of course I know you.”

“But you still haven’t tasted my cooking,” Firanis commented with an absolutely deadpan face. “It wounds me.”

“Your friends are to blame; if you haven’t learned how to cook yet it’s because they won’t let you anywhere near the kitchen – hence, no improvement.”

“You’d say they were right if you’d been camped with me during our travels.”

“Nonsense.” The shiradi waved her hand in front of her face in a dismissive way. “You said the same thing about sword fighting and you’re good with it now; it just took more time to master than your inane abilities.”

“You believe we can do anything as long as we put our minds to it?” Firanis asked. “That’s a little far-fetched, Melynia; a person can’t be good at everything.”

“Wrong. A person can’t be _the best_ at everything. But one can be the best at one thing and merely good at the rest. Surpassing others in one skill doesn’t mean you can neglect everything else, you know.”

Firanis moaned in exasperation; there was no point in dissuading Melynia from this point-of-view. It was the single one she refused to change. 

Perhaps the shiradi had sensed it as well, so she quickly changed the subject. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’ve improved greatly on the past eight years.” Melynia smiled. “Whatever it was I had to teach you, it’s been done; with some parts weakly glued, but still… You can use the Silver Sword without tripping now, Firanis.”

“But my Essence still hasn’t come back as strongly as it did eight years ago.”

“Someday, it will. Now, focus. If your instincts are right, this might as well be our last training session.”

Firanis did not speak; she looked at Melynia in disbelief but the shiradi already had her eyes closed. Firanis imitated her; after a whole afternoon of practice, her limbs were complaining; it did not made her concentrating any easier.

Slowly, she focused. She begun with her breaths and their rhythm; then she moved to the soft breeze whistling away the tree branches; then, the wildlife of Arborea; then, there was the fountain of her Eldritch Power, neverending, close enough to touch but refusing to come in great quantities… or rather, it _did_ come in great quantities, but most of it escaped through a hole, plugging it…

Firanis grimaced. _That_ wound still had not healed and it was because of it that her powers were still not as strong as they should be. But why? Why did it refuse to close? Had Bishop left a gash so great in her soul that even after eight years, it still managed to inflict her very own spirit with pain?

 _You’ve left me in a mess, Bishop._ Firanis sadly divulged to herself. _You’ve hurt me far beyond what I though and still… why can’t I hate you?_

It crushed her. _Am I so weak I cannot forget someone who’s hurt me so much? Why can’t I be strong enough and let this injury close and scar at once?_

Then, a disturbance. Her eyes shot open and Melynia was staring back at her.

“I think your grandfather is here,” the shiradi whispered. “Who’d say? It _is_ time for you to go.”

“Good evening, Melynia,” a deep, balanced voice roared behind the aasimar; she tilted her head up to see Guerryn’s serene face smiling down at her.

Slowly, she got up; Firanis hadn’t seen her grandfather in a while, but his presence was still as calming as ever and she couldn’t help but to feel peaceful whenever he was near. Stepping closer, she smiled weakly at him. “Greetings, grandfather.”

“Firanis,” Guerryn stated before circling the aasimar’s waist with his free arm, hugging her. “I’m glad you are well. Has Melynia been pushing you too far?”

Firanis shook her head. “No; she’s surprisingly endured my clumsy attempts at sword fighting for all these eight years.”

The shiradi grinned. “She’s really improved, Guerryn; you’ll have to tell Eleste the changes of her stabbing herself with a fragment of the sword are next to nil now.”

“She probably already knows,” stated Guerryn. “But I think she’ll be relieved when she learns her predictions towards it were accurate.”

Firanis’s brows rose. “What does that mean?”

“After you left, Eleste thought her foresight had weakened; she couldn’t say for certain when your training would end to tell Melynia how long she’d have with you,” Guerryn told her. “But even in that feeble state, she got it right. Eight years starting from your arrival in Mertion.”

An abrupt and unexplained sadness crept over Firanis. “So… it _is_ time for me to leave.” This place was not her home; she didn’t want it to be her home… and yet to leave it all of a sudden, without a more spaced warning, it felt… heart-wrenching.

Guerryn nodded in reply. “Yes. We’ve found someone.”

Firanis’s mouth was left hanging open for a while. “Who—”

Her grandfather sighed, and she couldn’t tell if there was pity or disdain in his reply. “The last person we expected to. But we must go, Firanis. Go get your friends, because we need to leave to Mertion as soon as possible.” He pursed his lips and Firanis saw that his eyes were now filled with a shadow of contempt. “Her presence there upsets us as much as it upsets her.”

Firanis’s eyebrows quirked up, but she didn’t push the subject with her grandfather; rather, she turned to the shiradi. Upon looking at the beautiful, serene features of her trainer, Firanis was speechless; she knew the words, but they were all stuck on the back of her throat, blocked off by something.

Melynia smiled; she had a pretty smile that seemed to make her face glow like the sun above. “I enjoyed our work together, despite the initial troubles.”

Still unable to speak, Firanis nodded in agreement.

Melynia’s eyes moved slightly beyond the aasimar and Firanis heard, after a couple of seconds, that her grandfather was stepping away from them; the shiradi’s attention was all on her once again, undivided. “I’ve seen mortal people endure much less than you have and still crack under all of it,” she began in a brisk, factual tone, “you haven’t. Whatever they might tell you about curses and darkness, it won’t ever change who you are. And you’re a good person, Firanis. Stubborn sometimes and slightly _too_ forgiving – but good. But that whole selfless martyrdom thing… Please, cut it out.” She unexpectedly held Firanis’s hands in both of hers and the aasimar noticed how _warm_ Melynia was. “People – especially your friends - want to know when and why you feel bad and what’s causing it. No one expects you to endure everything all by yourself… it’s just not natural.” She stopped, seemingly gathering courage to ask something; after a while, Melynia blinked and her vivid eyes met Firanis’s. “You… you chose to carry such a burden… Why?”

Firanis’s lower lip dropped and she held her breath briefly. “I…” she began, but her throat was immensely dry for a reason; she swallowed down the lump which had formed in it and re-started. Since she was going away, she might as well give Melynia an answer; she owed the shiradi that much. “It was all my fault.”

Her heart stopped in the exact same moment she’d finished pronouncing the last word. Melynia seemed to have perceived it and gently squeezed her hands in a comforting gesture. “I noticed you’d been evading something ever since I laid eyes on you, but I never really realized what until now… It actually hurts more when you admit it but I think it’s good, Firanis. You can’t keep wallowing on your own guilt.” She squeezed her hands harder. “You’ve been trying to keep all your troubles to yourself and if you keep on doing that you’ll break. And if not for yourself, do it for your child and your friends – do not try to appear stronger than you are. Promise me you won’t.”

Firanis shook her head, tears prickling her eyes. “I can’t.” She inhaled sharply through her nose and exhaled through the mouth to keep herself from crying. “That’s exactly why I’ve kept it all to myself, Melynia. Ilwyn doesn’t need to know; no one else but me needs to know. It’d just _burden_ them instead of burdening just me.”

“That’s what we’re talking about here. If you don’t share it, it’ll soon become too heavy for you to carry alone. _Tell_ everyone how you feel. Or haven’t your friends earned your trust?”

“My trust they have… just not my pain.”

Melynia groaned, taking her heads to the sides of her head in an exasperated motion. “Sometimes you can be so frustrating, Firanis! Just… trust me on this, will you?”

“I’ll _promise_ I’ll try, Melynia. Nothing else.”

The shiradi smiled crookedly. “Then that’s all I’m asking. Someday you’ll see I’m right, Firanis and then you’ll be glad to try out the promise.” She let go of her hands and winked. “Go now. I’ve always enjoyed a good challenge and training you was just that. I’ll miss you, Firanis Hlaetlarn.”

Firanis still felt the tears on the verge of her eyes, but now they weren’t threatening to spill out. So she smiled the best she could and, in a surprisingly quick motion, hugged the shiradi who had been her trainer for nearly eight years. “And I’ll miss you, Melynia.”

The aasimar felt the other woman nod. “You shouldn’t dally any longer, then. Go do what you have to do. Be yourself.”

Firanis let go of the embrace and turned to where her grandfather stood, silently waiting for her. His eyes bore into her skull and she took one last look at Melynia; the other woman smiled warmly and waved. Then Firanis tilted her head up and, as firmly as she could, said “Let’s go.”

Her home wasn’t far away from the place where she and Melynia usually practiced. On the way there, Firanis couldn’t help but to ponder what would happen after this day; for eight years, she’d been wondering _how_ and _when_ she’d finally be able to return to Faerûn. Now that the chance had finally showed up… she questioned why her grandfather had come all of a sudden and how come they had found someone who could open a portal back to the Material Plane practically out of nowhere.

Ilwyn squeaked a “Grand-grandpa!” as soon as they’d entered the room and ran to hug the emprix deva, who scooped her up in one arm, pulling her cheek close to his as he muttered a “Hello, Ilwyn,” in return.

Firanis felt everyone’s attention on her, her companion’s eyes quizzical and questioning.

The aasimar took a deep breath in; it seemed too _big_ , so _heavy_ now… “We’re leaving,” she announced in a tone she’d hoped to sound convincing and content.

 

 

Her head was a royal, screwed up, throbbing mess.

Aniel reached out to the lamp resting on the nightstand beside her. Her skin complained against the cold air and goose bumps appeared all over it; they worsened when she sat up to light the oil-dripped cloth and the covers fell, leaving her torso exposed.

What had just been that dream about?

She looked down at her smooth hands and saw they were shivering; _her whole body_ was shivering. It had been so long since she and Rekat had connected their dreams… She had no idea why it’d happened tonight. It’d seemed like he’d been avoiding her ever since they got split up and that _incident_ took place.

Aniel wrapped her arms around herself and a sigh escaped her lips. Every single part of her that had been touched in the dream _ached_ for more; the inside of her legs was wet and _Gods_ , how needing she was!

It had not been her fault that Rekat had been unable to keep it to himself three years ago! It hadn’t been her fault that it’d been so cold either! And she couldn’t be blamed for the fact that she had _needs_ which had been enticed and neglected by _him_ for so long!

The memory of a warm fireplace and a small, solid bed came back to her; she could almost feel the warmth spreading across her body… she could almost _see_ Rekat’s profile in the dim fire light, the creases of worry on his cheeks and forehead… and the way they had all vanished when he’d thrown her a smile.

Aniel hadn’t been – and still wasn’t – sure of what made Rekat’s smile so endearingly peculiar; perhaps it was the blatant innocence the dimples conferred him; perhaps it was because it was _rare_ to see him do so; or perhaps – just _perhaps_ – it was because it was _his_. At the last thought, Aniel had shaken her head and had caught his head on her hands to take a better look at him, to find a real answer as to why she had been so hesitant and shaken all day. She’d found strange that, upon tracing the contours of his face, she already knew every mark, every freckle, every scar… There was one on the left side of his nose; then one on the right side of the chin which jumped to cut a bit of the upper lip as well; there were more on his cheeks and jaw, but they were small, almost invisible; his forehead, too, had many faded traces of previous wounds; the lines of worry which had been so frequent on his façade had stuck, rumpling what would have been the smooth surface of his cheeks and the corners of his eyes.

His eyes… again, his eyes…

When Aniel had got to those, she’d felt every fiber of her being quaking with a strange wave of thrill.

So, she’d gingerly stroked his most prominent scar – one which had nearly took his right eye. His eyelid closed under her fingers, making Aniel feel accepted; Rekat’s hand had closed around hers, its calloused surface tickling her palm; _arousing_ her sense of touch.

 _“So, I guess this is goodbye,”_ he’d said in that deep, slightly hoarse voice of his; for someone who liked to look plain, Aniel noted he had one of the sexiest voices she’d ever heard. And eyes. There was no way one couldn’t notice his eyes.

She recalled all the guilt she’d felt because of Shemal; she had smiled back at him nonetheless although it’d been sadly and forcefully. _“I guess so.”_

Another shiver; like she’d shivered when he’d raised a hand to cup one side of her face. He had not been cold, but he hadn’t been warm either. Just… normal… like a pleasant autumn evening.

Inevitably, her gaze fell on his lips; she’d kissed him before and nothing had happened but that had been when she’d been unaware of the full extent of what her succubus half could do. Aniel had never thought she could kill anyone with lust until Shemal had told her. But even if she had, that wouldn’t have made a difference; Rekat still wouldn’t have died with just a tiny kiss; Shemal hadn’t and she’d been pretty much _hungry_ when he’d given her that kiss. So why was she afraid to risk it?

 _“Aniel?”_ Rekat had called out, her name on his lips teasingly scratching her ears… Back then, she’d thought that could be the last time she would hear his voice and see those eyes and feel that touch, however superficial and scarce it might feel… Something in her had ached from acknowledging that and, as if hoping it would deny it all, without drawing her eyes from his lips, Aniel had slowly pulled Rekat down to her and had locked their mouths together. Rekat had kissed back, matching her passion with his own; he’d sent her flying throughout the sky of her emotions.

But even the sky had its limits; soon, she craved more and more, her lips moving in an almost desperate pace. Rekat was the only thing she needed and right now, she had him all to herself, so deliciously─

Back then, Aniel hadn’t known why – she still didn’t – but as soon as she’d realized she’d been about to kill him, her whole body had frozen down and she’d pulled back, unable to even breathe the heavy air around her; she’d choked on it, gasped for it, but nothing had come, as if Rekat’s _frightened_ expression had created in her a void that, for all its emptiness, refused to be filled with anything but him.

She’d searched inside herself for an answer to that and had come up with none. She just _couldn’t_ and _wouldn’t_ ever devour his emotions like that, not when he had eyes like that to look _into_ her, to see _through_ her. The realization of all that ate away at another part of her, creating some sort of an inner conflict she hadn’t understood, but she’d shut out that pain and, in doing so, had left herself open for another one.

 She _wanted_ him. She _needed_ him. But she still wouldn’t have him. And to see that _he_ now regarded her as something _dangerous_ , someone that would devour all of him just to satisfy herself… Aniel’s eyes, big and wide, looked at him with the edge of betrayal. Then she murmured against his ear, her tone full of all the constraining sadness and uncontrolled pain. “I won’t ever do that. Not to you, Rekat. Never.”

Rekat hadn’t spoken; she wished he had. Instead, he’d taken one last single look at her – one in which he seemed to drink in all of her image at once -, all but those his eyes of his hidden in the shadows of the fire and, leaving her hanging alone, he’d left.

An indescribable pain had erupted within Aniel the moment she’d noticed he’d _really_ left. For the first time in years, she’d cried until there were no more tears left to cry while hugging her knees and staring at the door.  

She snorted. She’d been so foolish, clinging on to a hope that she _knew_ would be fruitless. Rekat had never really cared and just like every other man, he’d ran away from her at the first chance he’d got because he didn’t trust her enough! A new grave in her heart had been opened and the thief, along with all those strange feelings he’d enticed in her, had been buried in it. As for the present…

Aniel heard a moan escaping the figure lying next to her; it turned until the face of its wearer was turned to her. In a way which was so familiar to her, Aniel smiled her most sensuous smile. “Slept well, Rimal?” she purred.

The handsome face of the Paladin grew slightly red as his clear blue eyes ran over every single inch of sleek skin Aniel had left uncovered. Funny… he hadn’t been this sheepish last night when he’d taken her in the backalley and certainly even less so when they’d come to her apartment. Quite on the contrary as a matter-of-fact; Rimal had done more than surpass her expectations towards finally getting a full blown Paladin to break under her will.

“This is very wrong,” was the first sentence which escaped his lips that morning. He sat up and buried his head on his hands. “Tyr forgive me… What have I−”

Aniel fought the sudden urge to roll her eyes at him; she took a hand to his shoulder and felt the muscles tighten under her touch. “Rimal,” she whispered, “didn’t you like it?”

Shock was written on every corner of his face. “Aniel, my God−”

Aniel brought her body closer to his so that she could feel _all_ of him. “Should a God deny his most devoted follower a spark of the pleasures of the flesh, then?” She raised an eyebrow at him. Her nails scratched their way down from his collarbone to his navel, running down the length of his soft member.

He grimaced and tried to free himself from her strange hold but something in Aniel kept Rimal from edging away from her. “You’re evil, Aniel.” He whispered. “Any who would’ve failed to notice how rotten your heart is would truly have been blind and yet…” He reached out to feel her silken, flawless skin; she was just too perfect to be true; but she was _real_. She was here. And she was everything he’d ever feared and coveted. “You are beautiful. How can someone like you be so beautiful and so cruel at the same time?”

Aniel’s full lips widened their smile even further. "Gods and their doctrines…” she mused, “My evilness... I guess you always thought evil things must always be abhorrent to your eyes... At least that way, you could not want them... Aren’t I right, my dear Paladin?"

Rimal sucked in a breath when she moved to nibble his neck. Teasingly, her teeth moved all the way up his jaw and the lobe of his ear. His mind told him to push her away but Tyr, how deeply insatiable was his thirst of her! Aniel smiled at him and looked from under her long eyelashes in a way that made Rimal aware of how fast his heart was beating.

Like the thin heat of a candle in a winter night, her breath played on his ear. “But you want _me_ … don’t you?”

Rimal rolled out of the bed, scared at how quickly his body was responding. Aniel leaned back on her elbows and tilted her head so that she was still looking at him.

“I can’t−” the Paladin managed.

She raised an eyebrow at him; the way he’d kicked back the covers had left her fully uncovered, a perfect marble-pale figure waiting for him on the bed… “Your God has already seen you sin, Paladin,” she stated. “To his eyes, you’re already tainted; what’s the point of abstaining now?”

Rimal covered his face with his hands; he was disgraced, he knew, but what was truly adding weight to his conscience was that there seemed to be no regrets towards it. And if there were, they vanished when Aniel rose and began walking towards him in that slow hip-swaying motion that hypnotized the Paladin. His arms found their way around her waist and his lips mashed against hers.

He always had this funny feeling whenever her lips touched any part of his body; actually, he had funny feelings with _any_ part of hers that touched him, but when that part was her lips, the world became a haze of pleasure. Sometimes, when he opened his eyes after breaking off the kiss, Rimal could swear the world was moving in slow motion and that the only reason his heart didn’t snap was because Aniel was holding something back. But she couldn’t be holding anything back, right? That would mean Aniel was even better, even more passionate than she already was and _that_ would be nearly impossible.

Rimal wasn’t sure if it were minutes or hours before they pulled away from each other. He knew that Aniel had, once again, thrown him her lopsided, dazzling smile and patted the tip of his nose with her index finger. “You should still go to the temple, you know?”

The Paladin frowned. What was she trying to do to him? He’d already betrayed his faith – now she wanted him to _lie_ about it? What next, then? Kill whoever found this little secret? Make him...

Rimal stepped back, his blue eyes wide in astonishment. Aniel belonged to the Zhents; she obeyed a cleric of Loviatar. Oh Tyr, how could he not have seen this coming? How could he have been so foolish, so...

“Paladin, we’ve done _nothing_ wrong,” Aniel affirmed as if she’d been reading his thoughts. “We’re just a man and a woman with conflicting morals,” she took a peck at his still mouth, “just because we’ve happened to fall on the same bed, it doesn’t mean any of us has to change.” She pecked his mouth again. “So as long as we don’t get in each other’s ways, we should be fine.”

He tried to find an argument logical enough to combat hers but when Rimal breathed in to focus, there was just Aniel’s intoxicating scent flaring up on his nostrils. He looked down and his eyes only saw _her_ and nothing one else. He reached out to touch but he could only feel her curves. Shutting away from all that, he tried to listen but his ears only picked up Aniel’s slow, calm breathing. In a final act of despair, he ran his tongue over his lips only to find _her taste_ was still there.

He couldn’t escape her; no matter what he did, his thoughts would always go back to her and, with them, all of his feelings, all of his wisdom and good sense.

Aniel touched the sides of his face to pull him down. Their foreheads met and she murmured. “So… what’s it going to be, _Paladin_?”

Rimal said nothing. Instead, he grabbed her by the buttocks and threw her back onto the bed. On all fours, he stood on top of Aniel, who was still wearing that same sensuous, perfect, mind-blowing smile...

He dragged her head up, yanking it by the hair. He covered her mouth with his own while his free hand kneaded Aniel’s left breast. She scratched his back and bit down his lip until she tasted blood, _testing_ his limits. But he… he no longer knew what such things were.

Upon realizing this, Aniel laughed on the inside. _Paladins definitely have a thrill to them. At least it won’t be just for Shemal’s pleasure; I can enjoy myself with him as well…_

 

 

Mertion’s sky which, when Firanis had last seen it, had been the perfect portrayal of calm and comfort, had somehow, in the last eight years, become a twisted version of its former self; the clouds seemed angry and revolted at something, turned into wisps and furiously twirling around in the air; the aasimar questioned herself further but when she was taken into a large, tall room with windows in the place of side walls, her questions dissipated and she understood _everything_.

Firanis thought she felt the core of her very own being quiver at the sight of the girl’s profile of chiseled marble, exquisite eyes of carved ice and hair of languid flames. The girl bowed her head before walking forward… each step making her curves undulate, slither, whisper; when her hands moved, the world seemed to whistle, inviting them to play; when she spoke Firanis's name, her voice was resonating, like an ancient song chanted in a temple.

"You..." Firanis whispered as the girl... no, the woman closed the distance between them. "You're the girl from back then... The girl who was not a girl, but a woman, and then became a girl again. Tyavain."

The redheaded woman nodded, pulling the long loose fringe behind an elongated, pointy ear; her movements seemed to make the air whistle and dance, as if she were a part of it and as if she’d been reading her mind, Tyavain’s thin lips curved into a sad, soft smile, showing that this was something she was used to saying many times, no matter how much it hurt her. "I am the Twice-damned; the Homeless; the Unbelonging. But here is just the other part… here is just Tyavain.”

When she moved her hand again, the world wasn't whistling. It was shattering. The ceiling seemed to spiral, dust began falling from the white walls and the big, perfectly painted glass windows to break under the shriek of the air.

When Firanis thought everything was coming down, it stopped, and Tyavain was in front of her, unmoving. Her icy eyes then looked up, past the glass ceiling and she said, “And I am not wanted here. Even the sky itself shows its rage at the knowledge that I am taking one of its daughters with me when all I brought back to it was a betrayer.”

Casavir approached her from behind, as silently as he could. “Is she really the one who can take us back?”

Guerryn nodded. “She’s recently returned from the Lower Planes with one of our fallen.” There was shame in the way he said the last word. “The Betrayer, he… said she heard us call out for her name, so he brought her here. She’s got Lower Planes blood on her veins, and in no small amount.”

“Well, she _is_ Tyavain, no doubt. There’s no mistaking it, right, Firanis?” Sand asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Firanis nodded. “Undoubtedly, she is the one I spoke about… the one whom you’ve scryed and the one who helped me eight years ago...” The aasimar paused to meet the woman’s solemn eyes. “Twice, was it not?”

Another smile crossed Tyavain’s lips; this one was reminiscing, lucid and acknowledging. “And now, it will be thrice.”

“I just don’t know how she knew you were here, Firanis,” Guerryn interjected, visibly uneasy. “She just… opened up a portal into Mertion, followed by none other than that Betrayer, and claimed she was the only one who could… bring you home.”

“Maybe if you’d only ask her, she’d give you an answer,” a deep, melodic voice surged in the room. Firanis heard Sand mutter something about “the charred stench” and “the acrid odor”, but she couldn’t associate those words with the voice she’d heard.

With the _figure_ , however, it was different.

The male deva carried himself with pride, his strikingly beautiful, perfectly shaped face with a deadly serious expression splattered over it. His muscled, toned body did not seep the luminosity that was so characteristic of the deva skin: it was brown and dull, like a cup of milk with coffee, and tainted with occasional scars. The wings, however, were what caught most of the attention; they were not of white, luxurious feathers, nor of a glowing, soothing white light: their feathers were burned, and the naked bones were dry yellow. “Why is it so hard for you, Guerryn? I thought devas were supposed to be stripped of all forms of prejudice and hatred, but you—”

The disdain in his voice was shushed when Tyavain touched his forearm and whispered. “Please, Trias.”

What Firanis noticed next was something she could never forget, despite that she knew that he was a Fallen deva… No, he was not _Fallen_ , at least not when his dark brown eyes seemed to fill with mirth and care during the seconds they were on Tyavain’s quiet frame.

“But Tyavain—” the deva began, but once again his attempts at speech were killed by a shake of Tyavain’s head. He sighed, and she removed the hand from his brown skin without any signs of hurry.

“Firanis,” the woman spoke, turning to her, “do you know how strong words can be?”

Words could be like knives; they could be like soft rose petals grazing our skin, like refreshing waters or terrifying storms. Words could hurt, maim, kill… But when used right, they could bring comfort, warmth and make a life rise anew. Firanis told Tyavain all that and the woman seemed to be surprised at her response, because her sheepish, uncertain gaze had suddenly been lifted to the level of Firanis’s own. “Yes,” Tyavain whispered, “that is all true, but there is more.

“When the Multiverse was created, it was done using a language – a very complex one – which described every single object, from the sky to a grain of sand. And when one knows that language, it is possible to shape a selected fragment of the universe at one’s will.” She tilted her head towards Guerryn and, keeping her tone neutral, said, “That is to answer your question, Mister Guerryn.”

If Firanis had ever seen her grandfather blush in a mixture of shame and uneasiness, it was then, after Tyavain had said those words to him when he’d been trying to avoid speaking directly to her ever since she’d arrived. She guessed that even devas were prone momentary issues of prejudice, but… no one was perfect and, if she’d learned something from everything which had happened to her, it was that there were always two sides to a question: the one we see and the one the others saw. Maybe Guerryn wasn’t being racist or narrow-minded, but was simply smelled something in Tyavain that had the same scent danger did.

“It’ll be… harder here,” Tyavain murmured in a seemingly great effort, making Firanis pry her gaze from her grandfather and set it back on the girl. “We’re very high in the upper planes, and the voices, they… seem to be far away, unlike they were when I was in the Lower, but,” her lips broke into a wry smile, “I think I’ll manage.” Tyavain then let out a hapless yawn and rubbed her eyes with her hands.

“You’re tired,” Trias pointed out.

“Nonsense. I’ll manage to do this today and avoid abusing of Mister Guerryn’s hospitality.”

“You _can’t_ push yourself any further and you know it, Tyavain,” Trias insisted.

“If she wants to do it now, let her do it, Betrayer,” Guerryn hissed.

Firanis was surprised; what was exactly going on here? Why all the contempt? Was it because this was not a place for Tyavain to be? Or was it because… her grandfather feared of what would happen the moment she left the safe layers of the Upper Planes?

She wasn’t sure whether it was Tyavain speaking next, or the air, or the running water of the Palace’s fountains, or the clouds outside or even the souls of everyone in the Multiverse. “Mister Guerryn,” the girl said, her voice no longer a dawdling plea, but the same chant it had been before, “you too, don’t you think it’s enough? I am here to help one who is blood of your blood, and I know it’s not on your nature to be like this.”

“Plus,” Trias added, a note of triumph in his tone, “my mother wants to talk to Tyavain _and_ your granddaughter as well. Now.”

Trias spun round and walked out of the room; Tyavain looked at Firanis and followed suit; Firanis looked at her grandfather, expecting him to give her a sign to whether she should go to the Temple or not. He seemed apprehensive for a while, his gaze lingering on Trias – but then he gave a short, tight nod and she, too, followed the charred-winged deva.

Outside, the clouds were still twisting and turning in the sky; the aasimar noticed that their movements seemed to be stronger just above where Tyavain was standing. _It must not be easy being in a place which opposes to you_ , Firanis admitted, _She’s probably the person who wants to be out of here the most._

She sighted the familiar entrance to the Temple of Savras and, inside, after being revisited by the sensation that she was walking into an abyss of light, she stood in the room with glass walls and floor.

 _And a basin._ Firanis noticed. _Eleste did get a replacement after we left._

The solar had her back turned to the door, the white robes she wore falling loose just below her scapulas; her arms were around herself as if she was feeling loss and the only person who could console her was herself. “Thank you, Trias.”

Eleste’s voice was still as clear as the glass walls which surrounded them; it also seemed to be more tired and sad. Like she’d grown accustomed to something she’d tried to admit all along but never did because it was too painful.

From the corner of her eye, Firanis perceived that Tyavain was unable to stand still; her feet were constantly moving and she kept locking and unlocking her hands.

“Stop fidgeting,” Eleste commanded, snappish. “If you had any reason to fear us, then it should have been gone by now; you haven’t been harmed nor locked up yet.”

Trias touched Tyavain’s shoulder and she looked up, mouth ajar, eyes blinking. All of a sudden, Tyavain gave away the feeling that she was feeling lost and cornered – and that it wasn’t about her that she was worrying at all.

Eleste slowly turned to face them and Firanis saw that it wasn’t only her voice that looked sad and weary; her beautiful round face, too, showed signs of it; her full, rosebud lips were pressed together to hide their tremors; her skin, once clean and translucent was now dull and deathly pale; there were shadows under her eyes and those too, seemed to have lost their shine. Firanis remembered that her cornea had been milky white and her eyes of the lightest of blues; now, her cornea was red and the irises a clouded grey.

“Firanis,” Eleste spoke her name as a greeting.

“Lady Eleste,” Firanis breathed out.

The solar gave her a slow, forced smile. Firanis felt her eyes widen at how wrong it seemed – and how pain seemed to drip from it so openly; everyone was quiet - so quiet that the aasimar could hear not only her own breath but also Tyavain and Trias’s. While the male deva’s respiration seemed fine, the girl’s was irregular and shallow and _shuddering_.

 _Tyavain’s still afraid of something_ , Firanis noted, _she knows she won’t be harmed, but still, something plagues her._

Eleste furrowed her brow; the expression, along with all the signs of exhaustion and grief made her look _old_. “Are the taints gone for now, tiefling?”

Tyavain nodded, her lips curled down in a poignant expression. Firanis saw her catching one of Trias’s hands on her own and clasp it tightly; the deva held it and squeezed it back. She realized it had been something so natural between those two that neither of them seemed conscious of the gesture – not as she or Eleste were, at least.

Ugly lines then began creasing the blond woman’s forehead – she seemed _truly_ disturbed by what she was seeing – but instead of speaking, Eleste moved forward to stand just a foot away from the crystal basin and extended her arm so that her right hand hung over it; her fingers began moving and water surged forth.

Firanis blinked; a small humanoid silhouette had formed, but it was broken. Pieces of it kept attaching and reattaching themselves together, but they never fit. It was like looking at someone trying to solve a puzzle with pieces that would never match.

“This,” Eleste’s voice came out surprisingly strong, booming throughout the circular room, “is you, Tyavain Shadowbreath. You say the taints are gone, but still you’re a stain in my spells. Why?”

Tyavain’s lips formed a thin line; when she stopped crushing them against each other they were white. “That’s because my soul is torn and broken; the taints might not be here now, but their effects take more than a couple of hours to fade away.”

“Why weren’t you like this when the moon elf scryed you eight years ago?” the solar inquired.

“He was not seeing a mad, divided being in his mind… but a single, innocent child. So that’s what came to him,” Tyavain explained; Firanis sensed a subtle hint of bitterness in her voice, but if it was indeed there, it was a well-masked one. “Not to you, though. I can see it in your eyes, Eleste, Oracle of Savras, that you resent me. It runs across your truename like flowing river, defining it as if it’s a major factor in your personality. Why?”

Eleste’s frown deepened, her face clearly displeased with the turn the conversation had taken. “What are you getting at, Twice-Damned?”

Instantly, the atmosphere in the room became as heavy as lead; Trias was eyeing his mother, full of disapproval, and Tyavain had her head tilted to one side, making her look like a bewildered child.

“You call me by one of my names, Eleste, Oracle of Savras; what do you hope to accomplish?” the young woman’s tone as clueless as her childlike expression. “Are you so filled with petty prejudice and revulsion when you look at me that you hope to make the taints surface so you’ll have an excuse to destroy me here and now?”

Firanis did not know what to say. Eleste came to look even more discontent after Tyavain’s last assumption and was scowling at the half-elven tiefling. Trias’s jaw was tightly set and she could tell he was trying _very_ hard not to lash out at his own mother.

Tyavain’s gaze flicked from the solar to the deva, whose hand still was around hers; she began moving her fingers against his in a caressing motion until his face relaxed and he was _almost_ smiling.

Firanis almost jumped at the clicking sound she’d heard in her head. Eleste wasn’t afraid of _Tyavain_ herself… Eleste was afraid of the _feelings_ between her and Trias and what they could do to her son.

“Lady Eleste, if you don’t mind, what did you have to show me?” Firanis asked. 

Eleste drew in a sharp breath, her clouded gray eyes on the aasimar; she waved her hand and the tiny frame whose pieces wouldn’t connect melted. “Trias, leave. This is not for your eyes.”

The deva stilled, so hesitant that he wasn’t even breathing. He looked surprised by Eleste’s request but her tone had been so authoritative and final that, after giving Tyavain’s hand another reassuring squeeze, Trias left without a word. Tyavain’s big blue eyes followed his every movement, causing Firanis’s heart to ache in reply; she tried to think less of it but the only way the aasimar found to describe such look was that it was one which belonged to a person who was holding on to another as if he were her very own life.

“Once, around eight years ago, a moon elf and I scryed a girl,” Eleste began, “I was strongly opposed to it. I knew who she was – not the _person_ exactly, but the essence, the core – and… I didn’t want to call her here. But when your God sends you visions o the future in which the girl showed up so often, you learn to accept you have to; I was still reluctant, however and it was only when Guerryn looked at me in that way of his that I decided favorably upon it.”

She held up her hand and pointed a finger at Tyavain. “Then _you_ came. Oddly enough, you were _sane_ and yet… I knew it would not last. I knew of your madness, of your lack of balance and of a place to call home. I knew you were damned two times over. I knew you belonged nowhere. And… and I also knew you’d bring me back my son.”

“And I did, did I not?” Tyavain intervened, one of her angular eyebrows raised.

“Have you _looked_ at him?” Eleste snapped. She giggled shortly afterwards, but there was no mirth in it. “How stupid of me; of course you have. He’s all you see, isn’t he?”

Tyavain opened her mouth only to snap it shut a few moments afterwards. Firanis felt ill at ease in the middle of the two women, especially when their argument had nothing to do with her. The half-elven tiefling was squinting fearsomely at the solar, who was staring back with her hands on her hips.

“What if he’s all I see?” Tyavain asked, challengingly.

Eleste’s breath got caught halfway down her throat in a hissing sound of surprise. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“What I _get_ , Lady Eleste, is that you’ve always hated me even though you’ve never, _ever_ have traded words with me up until now.”

“I don’t _hate_ you, I… I always was so afraid of you, Tyavain Shadowbreath,” Eleste confessed, her words so shy they could barely be heard, “and I still am because I dread that, just like you brought him back, you’ll take him away from me.”

The aasimar couldn’t help but to feel a pang of sympathy for Eleste afterwards; apparently, neither could Tyavain, because her face softened, struck with pity.

“But I won’t. I don’t even want to,” she stated; now, more than ever, Tyavain looked like the young woman she was supposed to be. “Trias is my friend and even though I sometimes feel like I depend on him, I don’t want him to feel forced to follow me for the rest of our lives. And I won’t deprive him of something we both need and only he has: a home.”

Eleste’s eyes bulged out; Firanis felt her stomach knot at how sincere and selfless Tyavain had just sounded. _This is her true self_ , the aasimar acknowledged, _devoid of any taints, without the burden of her heritage… This is Tyavain. And it’s costing Eleste so much to see she’s not some horrible monster like she wanted the girl to be._

“You say all that and yet you haven’t even realized…” Eleste whispered, but soon her voice was choked and she didn’t go on. “Nevermind. I suppose that is for the best. Now approach the basin; the Gods want you to know this.”

Firanis obeyed; Eleste chanted a few words, her hands moving about her upper body and, out of the basin came out an exquisite chess tray. One Firanis recognized from nearly eight years ago.

 _Back then she couldn’t contain her visions and I saw all the pieces in their real size… Now they’re all so small…_ Her whole body stiffened when her eyes found the only gray piece. _And Bishop’s still there…_

“Who have you met?” Eleste asked Tyavain.

The girl’s fingers moved to touch the pieces. “Firanis; the pawns,” she said; pointing to the black-skinned man Firanis had never seen and then touching him, Tyavain added. “One of my uncles.” Then, it was time for the rooks. “My mother and aunt. The other one I’ve also met when I was at Crossroad Keep. Torio Claven.” She saw her own piece and smiled. “Tyavain. And…” her lids were half-closed as the tip of her finger touched a small version of a Knight wearing a blue cloak with a silver eye. “I’ve encountered him as well… but why does his name escape me?”

Tyavain seemed deeply frustrated, with lines creasing her forehead. “He is Sir Nevalle; one of the Nine,” Firanis informed. “He was there the first time you saw me.”

It was like Tyavain had been struck by lightning. Her hand instantly moved away and she looked completely distraught; however, perhaps because she was under Eleste’s scrutiny, it took only a moment for Tyavain to compose herself.

“He made the voices go immediately quiet; I don’t know why. You had the same effect, Firanis and so did Trias, but that’s because your heritage contradicts the taints. That man is just a human… It confused me” Tyavain shook her head and nervously sighed. She extended her hand to the tray again. “I’ve also met them both.” She pointed at a striking beautiful woman and at a man surrounded by shadows. “The thief and the assassin. The Mulhorandi and the Zakharan. The half-God and the half-succubus. I remember their names clearly… he, too, has blood from a plane other than the Prime Material; she has as well, but in a more diminished quantity. I’ve also seen… Her.” Her finger now hung over a woman, tall and muscled, with a boyish haircut, shouldering a bloodied long axe. “One night. Three years ago, I believe; talking to Bishop.”

Voiced, his name seemed to take on a heavier load on her mind. “Talking to Bishop?” Firanis stuttered despite all her efforts to seem unaffected.

“Yes.” Tyavain nodded. “She wanted something from him, but he denied it. Back then I thought he’d begun admitting his feelings – too bad he was five years late.”

Firanis felt her whole body warm up and the cool down. It was not that she’d forgotten Bishop – it would have been kind of hard, considering Ilwyn – but she usually didn’t _wince_ at the mention of his name. Sure, it hurt, but not like this. Was it because there was a slight chance she’d meet him now? Or was it because Tyavain had said he’d begun admitting his feelings? _Yeah, like that’s going to happen…_ She coolly thought, _Bishop was far too scared of feeling_ anything _… and that’s what will always keep him from seeing he_ is _capable of feeling something._  

Tyavain threw Firanis a perplexed stare. “Why has your breath accelerated just now, Firanis?”

“It’s nothing. Let’s move on, shall we?”

Tyavain nodded; however, as soon as she moved her focus to another piece, her eyes widened and, for moments, her hand could’ve belonged to a statue; then, she let it feel the top of the piece, gently caressing it as though it was a living person. “Why,” she gulped down; Firanis thought she was seeing tears at the edge of her eyes, “why is Trias among the Black?”

Firanis followed where Tyavain’s gaze still hung; indeed, it _was_ Trias, with his charred wings and scarred skin but unless what she’d seen had been a fake, Firanis couldn’t even picture how the deva would oppose Tyavain.

“So now you see why it hurts so much,” Eleste murmured, “you brought him back but ultimately, when you come face-to-face with each other again… you will take him from me.”

Tyavain looked up; her eyes glistened. “I… I _can’t_. I told you, I wouldn’t _ever_ −”

“Yes, you’ve told me you’re incapable of hurting him. But is that really the whole truth? Will you still be able to say the same once the Taints come back and it’s _your_ or _his_ life that has to be given away in order for the conflict to end?”

The aasimar saw that the tears she’d suspected to be there were now confirming their presence by falling, spilling down Tyavain’s pale cheeks as she shook her head. The girl took a hand to her chest and backtracked down to the exit with nothing but ragged breaths escaping her mouth.

Firanis saw a glimpse of Trias when the door was open and Tyavain gazing up at him with an utterly scared, pained expression; she saw when Tyavain flinched as he gingerly brushed away her tears; then, with a resentful look at the solar, Trias closed the door and Firanis saw nothing else.

Eleste sighed. “Ah, Firanis... So many people wishing they could glimpse the future… They don’t really know how much of a curse it can be.”

For the first time since she’d arrived, Firanis felt that she had Eleste’s full, undivided attention. She felt an unpredictable surge of anger towards the solar and at how _casual_ she could be when she’d just sent a girl crying out of the room.

“Why did you treat Tyavain like that, then?” the aasimar bluntly asked before she could stop it.

“Because she still hasn’t realized the effect she has on him.” Eleste tilted her head towards the door. “Even you have; it takes little more than a look to understand that they’d do anything for each other.”

“If you know she’ll do anything for him, then why are you worried?”

Eleste smiled and her reddened eyes met Firanis’s; she could now say that Eleste wasn’t just _sad_ … she was completely drained. “I, too, once thought like you do now, Firanis. I thought I could face anything and move on; I thought I _had_ moved on. But things never are the way we think them to be and, in these constant tests of life… we learn to harden; we learn to fight; we learn to protect. And that’s why it’s so hard to admit what took you so long to learn is rendered to nothing when you have to save someone you love.”

“And so, to do that, you hurt _a girl_!?” Firanis gaped in disbelief. “She’s already not comfortable here and you still tell her she’s going to doom your son.”

“And she will. I tried to stop it; I tried to make it change; but they still met and they still got close and he still will die!” The solar’s small hands were tightened into fists, resting at the brim of the crystal basin. “You all judge me for how I’m acting but what would _you_ do if you noticed your daughter was heading somewhere which would only result in her death? That she would be forced to choose between the person she loved and her own life? Tell me, then, what would you do?”

Firanis took a step back at the violence with which Eleste was speaking. She bit down her lip and considered the other woman’s words; she remembered how Sand had said Eleste was a stuck up, selfish person and the recent events of the way she’d talked to Tyavain were still too vivid on her mind but… deep inside, Firanis couldn’t blame the solar. She was so drawn now, merely a shadow of her former self… as if she had finally given up on a battle which had been already lost long ago.

“I think,” Firanis began, “I think that you should try to make amends, Lady Eleste, because pointing your finger at someone and blaming them is not the right way to save your son; I don’t think he will care for Tyavain any less; he will just think you hate her because she belongs to the Lower Planes and you believe she’s dragging him down with her.”

“But it’s because of her−” Eleste’s voice was still too low, too _tired_ …

“You asked me what I would do if I saw the same happening to my daughter,” the aasimar firmly interrupted. “Ilwyn means a lot to me. You claim that I judged you by what I saw but then again, you also judged me when Ilwyn was born… based only in things you’d seen. You knew nothing of the way I felt, Lady Eleste and even though you say what’s happened to me has happened a thousand times across the planes… I don’t believe it. It couldn’t have been exactly the same because no one feels things the same way.

“So, to answer your question… If I knew my daughter loved someone so strongly enough to kill her… I would fight it. I would use up all my strength to save her but if I knew that the person also loved her back… Lady Eleste, as much as it would cost me, I would never point my finger at them the way you did at Tyavain because I know it would only hurt my child more.”

Eleste stared down at the floor, guiltily. Firanis hadn’t meant to sound harsh; yet, apparently, she had. And despite all the anger she could’ve held towards Eleste minutes ago, she moved closer and, slowly, took her hands away from the basin and tenderly unclenched the fingers. In the back of her mind, Firanis fleetingly acknowledged it was the first time she was touching Eleste and it felt like a smooth, faint river flowing through her – but she couldn’t shrug off the feeling that it was _cold_ , which, considering the part of the curse she’d inherited, was saying a lot.

“I don’t… think you’re really a bad person, Lady Eleste.” Since Eleste was clearly at the edge of her feelings, Firanis spoke as softly as she could, trying not to make the other woman snap. “You just… carry a too heavy burden and try to take loads of it out of your back the wrong way because, in the past, it was the one which worked out the quickest.”

Eleste sniffed. “How and when have I gone wrong? I never intended for this to happen… for my own son to hate me.”

Firanis’s shoulders slumped down. “I’ve made my own bad choices as well, but they were not a reason for me to give up on redeeming myself to the people I’d harmed. I believe…” she smiled slightly as the warmness of her memories came to her heart. “I believe there’s always a chance for forgiveness because, someday, we are all meant go wrong one way or another. And I also believe someday Trias will see that all you wanted was to protect him and he will finally understand you. All you have to do is make an effort towards understanding him as well.”

Eleste spun round, prying her hands out of Firanis’s, who waited patiently for the solar to finally turn to her again. Through the glass walls, the aasimar saw that the sky’s turmoil had dulled although a small fragment of it was still visible; she looked at the basin and saw her own piece there, a perfect statue of her own self but with the features set in a determination she highly doubted to possess. And then, inevitably, her eyes fell on Bishop’s, of the same shade of grey cobble stones. And she confirmed that what’s felt while talking to Melynia was true; there _wasn’t_ a great pang of hate when she looked at the small sculpture of him. There was just… a tightening of her heart, an old wound being re-opened and the screaming of her soul; but not hate.

She touched his piece, hoping it’d make the feelings more clear; instead, her heart complained further and that old stab on the back somehow began bleeding even more and her soul… in those frozen landscapes that were its home, it somehow felt even _colder_ and lonelier and shallower. But she still wasn’t able to feel any hate surfacing.

Firanis shook her head. She’d never know for sure until she saw Bishop and looked at him in the eye – and although a great deal of her hoped she’d never have to answer all these questions, a small part still lingered on the wishes that they’d cross their paths again and she’d know that she hadn’t been completely wrong about him.

“You are… too forgiving for your own good, Firanis,” Eleste said, breaking off Firanis’s concentration; it was impossible to tell if it was a compliment or an insult which had been disguised on her sentence. “At times, it might be a good quality for on to have… but I fear that it will ultimately prove to be your doom.”

“Someone has to be that way.” Firanis affirmed. “There’s already so much suffering out there; there’d only be more if no one was there to be _too forgiving_ , Lady Eleste and I don’t think I’d want my daughter to grow up in a world where forgiveness is rare.”

“Ilmater must be proud to count you among his followers, then,” said the solar. “Someone who forgives like you do even though it might bring you pain in return is rare indeed.”

The corner of Firanis’s lips rose up. “There are limits to my forgiveness as well.”

Eleste stood silent for another while, contemplating the thoughts in her head. A frown creased her forehead when she spoke again. “But you were still willing to forgive that man even though he walked out on you. You _did_ forgive him, at least enough to let him walk away.”

“Sometimes your feelings get ahead of your logic.”

“I know. That’s exactly why things tend to go wrong; we feel instead of think.” Eleste waved her hand and the watery chess tray crumbled into crystal clear watery drops which fell back onto the basin. “What will you do, then? Once you get down to the Prime Material?”

“I really don’t know.” The aasimar shrugged. “I don’t know how things are down there but if I really have to meet with the other three you and my,” Firanis’s tongue got stuck as she still wasn’t used to calling Esmerelle her _mother_ ; the word came out with surprising ease though, “mother warned me about, I suppose I will know. That’s how things have always been.”

“Except that before you didn’t know you’d been cursed,” Eleste coolly added.

“Perhaps. Although it’s just like I’ve been told countless times: just because I _know_ something might drive me over the edge, it doesn’t mean I have to submit myself to its will. It’s always been there and somehow, I’ve been able to resist it.”

“I sincerely hope you do…” Firanis could read the hesitation on Eleste’s manner. “Your… grandfather would suffer greatly if you did not.”

Firanis looked up, scrutinizing the solemn face of the solar; she could say that the other woman was fighting not to let her emotions show and was failing miserably. Like she had that day, when the last battle against the King of Shadows had taken place. There had been sadness and despair when she’d talked about Trias and Tyavain but they’d been under some sort of tight control; now, upon mentioning her grandfather, everything was slipping away from Eleste as though it was the last drop needed to overflow the glass of water…

How… how could she have not seen it before? It was so plain, so obvious. “For the Gods,” she whispered, “you’re in love with Guerryn.”

Eleste nodded; little by little, her control slipped further and Firanis saw that, beyond the emotions she’d already seen there, there were utmost defeat and the overwhelming traces of an unrequited love. “What difference does it make that I am? He won’t ever look at me the way he looked at your grandmother; to Guerryn, I’m just−”

“Someone he trusts greatly; someone he cares about,” Firanis completed. “Just because he hasn’t _said_ he loves you, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”

“How do you know someone loves you back, then?”

“Lady Eleste, words can be as meaningful as you want them to. To Tyavain, for instance, they mean _a lot_ ; I think they can be powerful in some cases as well but in others, they’re not even _needed_. It’s just like when you realize _you_ are the one in love with someone; you don’t have to tell yourself that you are – you just _know_ and that’s it.” She smiled comfortingly at the solar. “All you have to do is take a _real_ look and you’ll know.”

Eleste let her breath hold for a while and then sighed. “All this talk and I haven’t even told you the reason I called you here.” She shook her head. “I guess I am, after all, too selfish for someone of my standing.

“What I am not, Firanis, is powerful,” Eleste admitted. “I may be a solar, but still… the deity I follow is powerless when compared to the most important ones.” She gave Firanis a lopsided grin. “Not that I mind. I am grateful for the power Savras has bestowed upon me, however small its influence might be. Maybe it is exactly why he’s not a major deity that I can help you so… and maybe I won’t regret helping you like I’d dreaded at first.”

She produced a small transparent ring from her robes. “This is my gift to you, Firanis Hlaetlarn. It is made of the clean and unpolluted waters of our Lake and has the Blessing of Savras upon it; with such a curse upon you, I think… I think it might come in handy later on.”

Firanis took the ring from the solar’s hand; it was chilly to the touch and the water which had shaped it seemed to be liquid between the walls of the ring; she noticed the small, nearly invisible runes inscribed upon its surface. “A Charm?”

“Of sorts. You’ll know the meaning of it when the time comes.” Eleste smiled the first real smile Firanis had seen in her; it made the solar more beautiful that she’d ever been, despite all the wrinkles of worry and haunted eyes. “I think it’s your time to leave now; meeting you was… less painful than I’d expected. And helping you was… not forceful at all.”

Firanis bowed down her head. "I thank you for your help, Lady Eleste. And… I believe that you will find what you’re looking for.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Firanis nodded. “You might be surprised that, after so many years, some things can change with the blink of an eye.”

Eleste turned to the window. “We shall see. Goodbye, Firanis and good luck.”

Firanis turned and left the room; Eleste possibly already _knew_ what was going to happen and she’d wished her luck why? She’d _never_ wished her luck. Was she trying to act casual when she’d seen something terrible happening? Or had this talk really changed all of the solar’s views? Most likely not; Eleste didn’t seem to be able to redeem her views on someone so quickly.

Outside, she met up with Tyavain and Trias. When Trias saw her, he moved away from the wall he’d been leaning against and extended a hand towards the half-elven tiefling, whose eyes were downcast. “Come, I’ll take you to where the others are.”

“There’s no need, Trias,” Tyavain croaked in a hoarse, shy voice.

“I insist.”

“Trias, _no_.”

The deva’s hand curled up into a fist but relaxed almost immediately afterwards. “Tyavain, please… this _is_ our farewell.”

The aasimar felt like an intruder when Tyavain looked up from Trias’s hands to his face, her light blue eyes a sea of confusion and desolation; Firanis felt her chest suffocating at the sight of that expression, because it was one she knew all too well… and because she _knew_ that the deva and the tiefling loved each other… but were both painfully unaware of it.

It was so reminiscent of her own situation that she had to avert her eyes to stop the most painful memories of surfacing again. “You know, Trias,” she heard Tyavain whisper as a breeze of uncertainty rushed into the room to tickle her skin, like Tyavain wanted to say something but was fighting against it. “I do really think you’ve got the most beautiful wings.”

The breeze of uncertainty was replaced with a wave of warmth; Firanis looked at the couple again and saw them involved in a tender, wordless embrace. There was nothing she could use to describe how it felt to look at how they held each other. Trias had one hand resting on Tyavain’s thin waist while the other cradled her head; Tyavain, on the other hand, had one around his neck and the other placed on his chest, along with her head; it was a perfect balance of madness and sanity, good and evil and taints and blessings.

It was Tyavain who first pulled away from the heart-wrenching scene. And still she did not speak, limiting herself to only look into Trias’s brown eyes for a couple of long moments; then she rose slightly on the balls of her feet, traced his lips with her thumb and, after a brief wavering, planted a faded kiss on his neck.

For the whole time her lips were on his skin, Trias stood still, eyes closed. Slowly, he let his grip around Tyavain fall, allowing her to step back. The world collapsed and crumbled; as Tyavain placed even more distance between her and Trias, the world collapsed further, screeching in a tattered, impossible pain. 

Firanis never saw Trias open his eyes again. Tyavain slipped past her and wheezed a, “Come on… let’s go home,” and clasped her hand, dragging her out. She looked from Tyavain’s hand to the entrance of the temple and then to Tyavain’s rigid face.

_So even someone who says words are the root of everything knows that sometimes words are best left unspoken because, even if they’d been used, they’d never be able to convey our true feelings at all…_

In the Main Hall, Yarija paced.

She’d been so utterly taken by surprise when he’d showed up in Luskan – after all, he hated Luskan, often calling it a necessary pillar of waste – that she’d hardly managed to control the emotions of revulsion which floated at the surface of her skin; and now they were delving deeper and deeper into her body, attaching themselves to every organ, membrane and cell she possessed.

Indeed, being back in Neverwinter had never been pleasant but today, with Shemal’s presence rubbing against her core like barbed wire on human flesh, it was more detestable than it’d ever been; why had he decided to come anyway? Did he think she wasn’t able to handle the Eight and their Master Fool on her own? Certainly not! He _knew_ her limitations better than anyone else and surely dealing with a group of handicapped warriors wasn’t among them.

“Will you stay still, Yarija? My head is getting tired of watching you walk around in circles!” commanded Vasjra in a tone which was far from her usual low hiss.

Yarija stopped and squinted at the half-drow, her nose wrinkling in disdain. As if Shemal only wasn’t already bad enough, _Vasjra_ , too, had returned to Luskan along with Aniel; Yarija wished she’d done like the half-succubus and had stayed there, but no… she’d tagged along to Neverwinter as well. And Torio hadn’t been able to come because she’d been filling in Aniel on their situation! _She_ could’ve done that instead! But alas, Shemal had insisted she be the one to come here. Why must he insist in torture her so?

“My Lord, my Ladies.” The guard nodded towards them. “You can go in now.”

Yarija snorted at how Vasjra seemed to _stop_ to behold as Shemal swaggered into the room. True, on the outside, Shemal had to be the most handsome, beautiful man she’d ever seen but really, couldn’t they feel how deeply twisted and rotten he was on the inside? To her, it was so plain, like a big signal displayed across his features, taking all the attractiveness out of them. And yet she _owed him_ her life. A debt she’d never be free of, as he constantly liked to remind her; they were tied together by blood, knife and spirit and she could never undo that. Not while she had these spellbound scars all over her body.

She followed him into the room, Vasjra by her side. As usual, Nasher sat in his throne at the top of the grey marble steps; by his right side was Sir Nevalle, followed by Sir Grayson Corett, who, if she’d remembered correctly, had risen to the position after a certain Lord Callum had fallen in the previous war, a pretty auburn-haired woman whose name was Lenya and Cormick, a powerfully-built man. At his left were Sir Darmon and the other three members of the Nine: a human man, the shady Sir Edmund, a female half-elf with a quick, lithe air about her – Jenna – and a blonde, beautiful warrior woman who went by the name of Katriona. And, as always, they were missing one member which would make them for what they called themselves: _Nine_.

Shemal bent his torso in an abnormally flourished bow; Yarija did the same but in a far more modest manner; Vasjra frowned because, as Yarija thought, she’d probably never thought Shemal had to show respect for someone much less for a circle of weak clowns. Yarija certainly hoped he would not follow the pleasantries of the Court, though – it’d make everything so much more interesting; regrettably, Shemal was as smart as he was good-looking and he knew how to sway a crowd in his favor.

Yarija’s eyes caught someone staring at her in the shadows – most likely one of the higher agents of the thieves as their little pawn, Sir Edmund couldn’t be the only one of them to behold Shemal’s rare visits to anywhere which excluded the territories the Zhentarim ruled. A smirk crossed her face as she reckoned the Shadow Thieves were practically the only ones still managing to keep Neverwinter out of their grasp – and the ultimate proof someone could see _past_ Shemal’s carefully planned deception.

It was pretty much the same thing she’d been through before; first began the major pointless talk on the truce: Neverwinter would let the Luskans into their trading operations and would grant their representative a place in the Council. Nasher would refuse as, apparently, he was quite content with his collaboration with the Thieves to risk his comfort over betting in the Luskans. From the looks of it, it was as clear as water _who_ was behind the Luskans… just like it was perfectly obvious _who_ was behind Nasher.

The only difference between this time and the others was that Shemal was here today. When Nasher said he’d not be able to let the Luskans have more of a place in the Court than they already had, Shemal had smiled in the most understanding way he could.

“I know why you are so wary, my Lord,” said he in his deep, honeyed voice. “But all of the Luskan’s offences were done under other rulers, not under _me_. I’d never break your trust.” It was a wonder Shemal could fake a dutiful tone so well; but more of a wonder was that Nasher seemed to be resisting it. Now _that_ had to be a first.

Yarija caught Vasjra shaking her head; she looked back at Lord Nasher whose face was set with grim determination. “It is as I’ve been telling Ambassador Torio and Yarija these past years – you will not be given a more prominent position among our Court.”

“Are you aware, my Lord Nasher, that it is I who control all your nearby trade routes?” Shemal crooned. It was like he was talking to a child but deep inside Yarija knew that if pushed any further, he would be far too deadly; she secretly wished that something would make him stop, for otherwise, even _she_ would be feeling the consequences of what would come.

Nasher raised his voice to a more commanding tone, “Are you? Do you control Waterdeep as well, Shemal of the Zhentarim?”

Shemal chuckled. “No. But I control Longsdale, Yartar, Mirabar and Luskan which are your nearest and most comfortable trade routes.” He took a step forward, defiant. “Or do you think you can survive only by trading with Waterdeep? Are you willing to _risk_ your city and her people’s lives when all it would cost you would be to raise Luskan’s standing in your Council?”

“It will be more of a risk to my people if I let you in,” Nasher responded, gritting his teeth.

“And you are willing to risk a war?”

Sir Nevalle stirred in his position, looking down to Shemal in something that could be confused with either fear or disgust. “What is it that Neverwinter holds that you have such great interest in?” he asked.

Shemal smiled. “Why indeed; a city which has been so recently rebuilt over a war… Same thing in the people department as only either very dumb or very weak people remained because, for eight years the famed Nine have only been Eight.”

At this, Nasher stood up. Shemal took another step forward and when Yarija thought he _was_ going to attack the ruler of Neverwinter, a bright, shimmering ellipse of white light appeared between them. The deep feeling of unease in her stomach grew; a guard gasped and she knew it was because she was probably bleeding on her back as she began feeling the familiar re-shaping of the cuts.

Her sight became hazy; still, she discerned one, two, three… eleven figures stepping out of the portal; it closed and the last one fell; someone with quick reflexes kept that person from hitting the ground.

Afterwards, there was a ruckus which rivaled the throbbing in her head; she coughed, her pale hands stained with blood. Through her blurry eyes, she spotted Vasjra standing a few feet from her, one of the corners of her dark lips raised in satisfaction; Shemal, the only clear figure among the wispy room, irradiated the same sensation about him although, as he turned, Yarija could see that he was masking it perfectly, as his face was completely neutral. He threw her a pitiful look before spinning round again, his head tilted slightly upwards. Yarija followed it and stopped when she saw a copper-haired woman clutching a young girl tightly against her side. They were both clear, lucid, _unwavering_ to Yarija’s diseased sight as well. She could even see how the woman’s rounded, rusty eyebrows were raised, how her eyes bulged out and how her small, pink lips were parted… how her pretty, round face was struck by horrible surprise.

The beeping on her ears worsened. Shemal said something and she couldn’t tell what. The woman’s lips moved in reply and Yarija still didn’t catch anything coherent. A dark form waved in front of her and, upon scanning her surroundings and seeing a coiling shape there, Yarija knew that it was Vasjra keeping someone from _helping_ her with all the bleeding.

For the next minutes, the world was a constant beep, accompanied by the movement of Shemal’s and the woman’s lips… and the girl, scared and lost, burying her head on the side of the woman’s waist. The whole time, the woman brushed the girl’s cashew hair with her hand, preparing her for something she _knew_ she was going to do…

In a split second, the pain became unbearable, protruding from everywhere inside her. Yarija fought everything not to let out any signs of it but she must’ve let something go because the girl instantly turned to her. Her face was sharper than her mother’s and her eyes were of a very light brown, almost amber, glistening with unshed tears.

Yarija knew that face; it was one she’d worn many, many years ago, right before Shemal had come. The girl’s mouth moved and a violent, yet welcome rush of clarity came to her. Yarija flexed her fingers and felt how sticky they were; she must’ve bled a lot from all her cuts, more than usual at the very least. There were so many expressions of horror thrown at her and really, could she blame them? She must’ve looked no better than an undead, standing there, unmoving, while bleeding from scarred wounds.

Shemal moved, stepping closer to her. “Come on, Yarija, they’ve given us a room.”

“You…” Yarija gulped down the lump on her throat; by Talos’s rage, even her _throat_ hurt! “You negotiated… with… them?”

A low, deep chuckle stirred his throat. “Oh indeed… not that it will last, though.” He stole a sideways glance at the newly arrived woman – now surrounded by half of the Nine and smirked. “No, I’m afraid that I’m taking all I want from this city.”

 

**_Intermezzo_ **

****

_He looked around the board, his fingers hanging above each of his White pieces, dawdling for an undetermined amount of time, finally stopping over one, surrounded at all sides by all his pawns except for one single square..._

_He hadn’t touched this piece in a long, long while…_

_Then, in a resolute gesture, he reached for his Queen of pure White, the one from which his whole game depended on and grabbed her. Funny, he remembered this feel of a soft cold… and it’d also been a long while since he’d felt that, much longer than the time it’d been before he decided he was going to move her._

_His Queen… Poor thing, always in that constant strife people called “Life”. She’d already been tested but now… now she’d be target to the worst predator of all…_

_In a more sure grip, he moved the piece forward to face off her Ebony enemies and, in a roaring voice said, “Is is time.”_

****

### Nine

_Half_

_Wants_

_Return_

 

It is a common notion that the speed of time is measured according to your mood; when you’re enjoying yourself, it’s faster; when you’re not, it’s painstakingly slow. But when you’re used to having the latter thrown at you… the speed with which time goes by you stops mattering. It just passes and you don’t notice.

It was like that to Aniel. She could hardly believe it’d been two years since she’d arrived Yartar alone to serve under Vasjra and seduce some man Shemal had designed. The weirdest thing was, she’d never had problems when it came to get someone into her bed before; she knew those games all too well. But… there was something else intervening; something… she did not understand.

She didn’t dwell much on it, though. When Belken had recruited her into the Zhents, he’d said she’d be free of her old life… and she was. Before, she had to answer to the repulsively make-up covered matron of hers and spread her legs open on a regular basis to let the costumers have their way with her. Now, the fat hag probably still had her entrails swimming in the infamous sewers of Baldur’s Gate – _and_ she only needed to provide a shag for this man or the other… the ones necessary to assure their deals always worked out on the Zhentarim’s favor.

Aniel actually felt a triumphant wave of revenge trill through her spine when she reminded herself that most of those men had died. She had to give Shemal credit for letting her know they were _dead_ and not asleep as she’d first thought when she’d been leaving the room.

However, despite the fact that she reveled in those men’s demises, something was still amiss. Something that made the whole Rimal deal a hell lot more complicated; and the assassin truly didn’t know what it was. No matter how much she mulled it over her head, everything was going perfectly, like Shemal had told her to do.

Maybe it was Vasjra’s fault. The woman was clearly too blindfolded by her submission tricks that she could not see how subtle the games of seduction must be played and it was thanks to her that Rimal had learned Aniel too, belonged to the Zhents... took the half-succubus two months to even get him to _threaten_ her little black heart with a thrust of his holy sword.

By then, there was no point in denying her affiliations; Vasjra thought so as well and decided they could talk in public, right in front of Rimal’s eyes. It was then that Aniel began getting the impression that the Loviatar priestess wanted her to fail… And Aniel knew exactly why. She also knew there was _nothing_ that could summarize how much Aniel hated Vasjra, but that was an entirely different subject. For now, she had to do the half-drow’s bidding and put up with the half-burned man whose leering had been driving her nuts for two years.

“This is the one,” Forlend informed while pointing to a door in the corridor with a heavily scarred finger. “You remember what the Pain said?”

Aniel sighed and, in a mockery of Vasjra said, low and raspy, “Get inside. Talk to him. If he doesn’t keep up the bargain, kill him.”

The man nodded and bid her “Good luck,” as Aniel’s hand rotated the doorknob; soundlessly, she slipped inside.

“Toran?” she called out with a voice which was hoarser and sultrier than usual.

The man’s massive figure turned; he wouldn’t have been considered really ugly – he had narrow, dark brown eyes, a round, normal-sized nose, slightly protuberant red cheeks and broad lips - but the deep gash on his left cheek gave it all away, making him look more like the backdoor weapon smuggler he was rather than the weary traveler Vasjra said he was posing as.

Frowning deeply, he scrutinized her from top to bottom. “I didn’t ask for a whore,” he grunted.

“You couldn’t afford me anyway,” Aniel remarked, quickly adding, “I was sent by Pain Vasjra.” afterwards, before the man could take a breath and get what she’d said.

“It’s a whore sent by another, then,” he mumbled. “I already said your master: Twenty thousand gold is too few. I’m not settling for anything less than forty.”

Aniel inhaled and let her hands caress the sides of her waist before resting on her hips. “You’re not being reasonable. The weapons you sell aren’t even worth fifteen thousand; Vasjra’s just being generous and is already assuring you have a profit margin of five thousand.”

“I’m not selling the weapons at their base price; your priestess _knows_ that no one will do so unless they’re desperate.”

She batted her eyelashes at him and her full lips curled into a lopsided smile. “I believe I’ve already stated you _will_ still acquire a small profit from the deal, haven’t I?” 

Toran pursed his lips and squinted at the woman in front of him; there had to be a reason why Vasjra had sent someone like _her_ to bargain with him, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “No.” he said. “I’m not selling you Zhents my weapons for that half-assed price. Go back to your mistress and tell her that if she wants a deal, it’s forty thousand or nothing.”

Suddenly, when their gazes were locked in some sort of stubbornness contest, Toran noticed how big and unnaturally intense her eyes were; the irises had appeared to be black at first but he could now discern hints of very dark green in them, as though they were dark olives… and he couldn’t look away from them. Then, she made a sound with the back of her throat – something between a giggle and a grunt – which sent shivers down his spine.

“It’s only a difference of twenty thousand,” the woman’s voice was now dark and sultry and it seemed to caress his ears with its soft music.

She took a step towards him. When Toran had first seen her, he’d thought she was beautiful; now, the word was absolutely meaningless, because, with all of the scorn and condescendence gone from her features, all the ugly wrinkles they invoked were gone and without those, she was just, without any exaggeration, _perfect_.

Toran shook his head in an attempt to make the clouds which had blurred his vision go away. “As I said, I didn’t ask for a whore.” He had been aiming for a strong, commanding tone, but his body betrayed him and all which was heard was a breathless whisper.

She took a step closer. “But I am not a whore; whores are filthy and desperate and cheap and work in brothels. While _I_ ,” she flipped her hair around her; it, too, had seemed black at first, but it was in fact, a very dark brown, “merely like to see my customers fully satisfied with their arrangements.”

She was only a couple of feet away from him, enough for Toran to drink in her exotic perfume and get lost in those tantalizing curves that not even the loose strapless shirt could hide. He breathed in – and was taken aback by how _hot_ he was just by looking at her; he breathed out and then in again, repeating the sequence several times to try to calm himself; for a moment, he thought he’d succeeded and could even give her a shaky, “You’re not worth that much”, but she laughed – the most alluring, crystal clear laugh he’d _ever_ heard – and rendered his resolve completely useless.

She closed the distance between them and touched his neck with her fingers, causing all his blood to pump harder and faster; he felt her breasts grazing his chest with each breath she took, and it was exhilarating. Toran tried to find a reason _not_ to give in, to remember himself why he’d agreed to meet with Vasjra’s envoy… but there was nothing he could come up with that could be more important that the woman in front of him, smiling sweetly as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her body against his. 

He must’ve moaned something unconsciously, because she laughed and, in that luxurious, deep melody which was her voice, she crooned, “Please… call me Aniel.”

Toran’s hands made their way to caress the smooth skin of Aniel’s; her back arched at the sensation of his rough touch and her lips – her full, blood red lips parted in a silent gasp. Aniel nibbled his neck; Toran thought his veins would explode and that his heart would give away; her tongue trailed up to his jaw and she slowly bit his chin, making his whole body weaken at the way she was teasing him; her hands moved to his chest, tearing apart the fabric of his clothing before her nails dug deep in his torso and moved down to scratch it.

Finally, their lips locked. Toran felt an immense thrill overpower him, taking control of his body, his mind and his soul – it was so strong his heart skipped a beat. And her blood red lips, feeling like velvet against his, moved at such a meticulously slow pace that he had to hold his breath to keep himself from exploding; then, there was her tongue, languidly stroking his own in a sweet caress…

Her nails dug deeper and their mouths were pressed tighter and her tongue moved further…

The next beat his heart skipped was so strong that, in just an excruciating second, Toran felt it give away and, still feeling that overpowering pleasure from Aniel’s kiss, he saw her pull away and her lips – those full, blood red lips – twist in the most perfect, innocent smile just before everything went black and, in his final moments of consciousness, Toran realized… he was dead.

Aniel’s smile turned into a grimace as she dropped the man’s limp body onto the ground. Doing things such as these had been gradually growing easier to her in these past two years, as though she was not attached to something, as though she was freed from some sort of responsibility… and, of course, because she was now _aware_ of what she could really do.

“Forlend!” she called out; her elven partner strode into the room just seconds after, shaking his head as he became aware of the dead body on the floor.

“He didn’t think our proposal was good, did he?” he asked.

Aniel shrugged. “The bastard got too greedy; I had to go for the Plan B.”

Forlend sighed, reaching to his belt with one of his scarred hands. “So, it’s the head?”

“I don’t think his associates will take us for real if it’s something else,” the half-succubus disappointingly noted, her gaze wandering to the man’s crotch in a way which mingled disgust and hope.

“Help me move him onto the bed, Aniel,” he asked.

Aniel sneered and made a dismissive movement with the back of her hand. “I don’t want to feel his greasy skin on my anymore. Do it alone.”

He sighed, knowing there was no point in arguing; The man lifted the dead body and placed it on the bed before pulling out a backpack and, in one clean, fast movement, sliced off Toran’s head; his nose creased – or at least Aniel thought it did… it was always hard to tell what was wrinkled and what was not in Forlend’s burned complexion – and put it inside the bag. “If it’s of any comfort to you, we _are_ going to have to chop off his whole body,” Forlend declared, pulling out a second backpack. “We can’t leave a headless carcass in here; it’d only bring trouble.”

“And we’re tossing it out in a nearby river afterwards?” Aniel inquired, squatting down by the bedside with a knife in her hand; she proceeded to cut off the arm by the elbow and then by the armpit with a somewhat content look.

Forlend smirked while he imitated Aniel’s work on the other arm; he couldn’t help but notice that even though Aniel was splitting the man into little pieces, she had not touched _any_ of his skin. “I don’t know about you, but I think that just in case they don’t believe us, we could also present the body as a proof the guy’s as dead as it can get.”

Aniel blinked at him with an absolute aura of guiltlessness , but as much as Forlend admired how beautiful or how starkly in contrast it was with the face she’d been wearing minutes ago, it didn’t linger. She furrowed her brow and, completely soundlessly, she got up and jumped to the door, which she opened by millimeters and… Aniel nearly laughed when she saw Rimal standing in the corridor.

She checked on Forlend to see if he’d already packed up Toran’s remains; he gave her a quizzical look, folding the bloodied blanket and placing it inside the same bag as the head. She turned to the door and fully opened it to reveal one of the city’s Paladins standing on the other side of the threshold.

The change in her behavior was so sudden and blatant that Forlend tried not to gag; Aniel was still smiling but it wasn’t a sneer – it was a pleasing smile that only by itself made Forlend’s bones ache in desire; her eyes, too, were different, seeming to be bigger under the long eyelashes which batted several times.

"I knew you were up to no good..." the man whispered, his voice hoarse.

"Forlend, go back to the base. Tell Vasjra I've found a friend."

Rimal didn't stop Forlend from leaving; in fact, the Paladin’s figure was as stiff as a board, saving for the times when he took long, deep breaths in. As Forlend made his way down the hall, Rimal and Aniel’s gazes were still locked and they were still in the same places; however, Forlend still caught, from the corner of his eye, Rimal lunging towards Aniel, pinning her up against the wall, arms caught by only a single hand of his above her head. She wasn't fighting at all... instead, she looked up with coy black eyes and a pout, "You're rough on the ladies, you know that?"

"Shut up, you vile..." he ordered, but his voice faded away when he felt one of her feet crawling up his leg. Forlend felt his breath catch on his throat; in two years, he’d never seen Aniel looking nor acting like that. Sure, he knew what she was and what she did but seeing it was a whole different thing from just imagining it. He half-tumbled, half-walked down the stairs, his whole body shaking due to what he’d witnessed and he ran back to the Zhentarim base, hoping the image of such a deadly seductive Aniel wouldn’t hang on to his mind for long.

Upstairs, Aniel was now leaning against Rimal while whispering into his ear, "Paladin, you saw nothing... You don't know what Forlend carried inside his backpack. You know you can't hurt me, lest you'll be the one who's arrested for not putting me up to a fair trial."

She pitifully tried to wriggle out his grasp, but he pushed her against the wall, even more roughly, their bodies pressed together... he could even feel her firm breasts under the loose shirt. He begged for Tyr to make the lust go away, but Tyr didn't listen, and soon he felt his member grow firm at the closure of their bodies.

Aniel smirked. Her game was playing well... It was late in its schedule, but still, it was all Vasjra’s fault. But no matter how this had been delayed or how hard the half-drow had tried to ruin it, Rimal was _almost_ eating on the palm of her hand... "Say it." she murmured, her lips close to his so that he could feel her breath on his skin. Unwillingly and taken by surprise, he released her and took a few steps backward, "Say it," she repeated, her voice steady, walking towards him, her black eyes haunting.

Rimal was at a loss of words, when she lifted her chin and whispered "Say it and I'm yours," again, taunting him; he felt sweat dripping over his forehead, his member pressing against her thighs...

The corners of her lips rose up to a smirk and Aniel could see that, no matter how sarcastic it was looking, Rimal found it to be as beguiling as her most delightful smile. But he _still_ wasn’t saying he wanted her... And even though she was sure she could have him right now, Aniel knew that Shemal wouldn’t be happy unless she got that saying out of the Paladin’s mouth. So, she took another look at him and left, her hips swaying more than usual. Sighing, Rimal fell back against the wall, wondering if Tyr was testing his faith when he'd made this woman cross his path.

 

 

Her mother had often warned her to stay away from the Lower Planes, from the Blood War, from everything that involved devils and demons. She really didn’t know why; she was always feeling the taints, speaking to her at every moment, taunting each other inside her head... so, how could it get worse?

But once she’d finally stepped through the portal which led into Hades, pain stronger than ever overcame all her senses and the girl fought the need to fall on her knees and scream, louder than she had ever screamed before.

It was like… having her mind ripped off her and, still feeling it, having it split in two; on one side, there was the Baatezu blood calling, and, on the other, the Tanar’ri heritage screaming. And those two parts which, while in Toril, had only fought in her head, were now stretching far and wide across the infinity of the Grey Wastes of Hades and bringing down their strife upon her with all that unbounded magnitude.

Tyavain shook her head, trying to focus her will away from the fight: she needed to find her parents but... for all the Gods, it hurt her so much! Her head throbbed as her weak body tried to fight off the taints which were pulling her in opposite directions. The girl tried to focus her sight but that too, was rippling in disturbance, and all she saw was a blurry, vast grey area with shadows moving everywhere. Her insides churned, twisting and turning, twisting and turning…

Oh pretty one, who’d say you’d be so foolish… Any other plane and this wouldn’t happen, hissed the Baatezu.

Smart enough to pick a neutral plane among all the hells… Anywhere else and you’d be lost, stated the Tanar’ri.

A coughing fit seized her and, following it, came the metallic taste of blood. Tyavain’s eyes widened as she realized the Blood Wars were shredding her from within. She could sense her conscience – her sanity – fleeing her at a terrifyingly fast pace; desperately, Tyavain sunk her nails into the sides of her head as though that would keep her good sense inside, but it just slipped further and further, drowned in all those hideous, tainted voices of the Blood War…

Her lips moved; her legs carried her away. She ran and ran, seeing all the forms of shadows bellowing and stepping out of her way, like she was something they wanted but could not touch… A part of her pulled towards them, but the other gave away vibes of repulsion… So she kept running and her lips kept moving and Tyavain didn’t know anything anymore, only that she needed to obey what a part of her was ordering her to do but, at the same time, could not because the other one was commanding the opposite.

In the fever dream that was her sight, one shadow remained still; the taints shrieked; it didn’t move. No part of her seemed to believe this was possible, so she kept on moving forward, as it eventually would move out of her path, like all other demons and devils had.

Except that it didn’t.

She bumped into it, hard, and for moments, her eyes were unclouded and her mind clear, but it all went back to that strange cacophony when she hit the ground, stranded…

No… not back into that mess… Even though there were still the voices of the taints, they’d been reduced to whispers and the only voice which spoke loud and clear was her own…

It was not of the Tanar’ri. It was not of the Baatezu. It was simply Tyavain’s.

She scrambled up to her feet and looked up; her lips parted as she drew in deep, calming breaths – and when she saw the figure against which she’d collided, her very own lungs paralyzed and she gasped because could breathe no longer.

Skin that was brown and dull and scarred and wings charred to the bones – bones which were yellow and cracked at several places; a face was like the one of a masterpiece statue, so handsome it almost seemed unreal; white hair, crisped at the ends by the burning fires of another layer of hell. And eyes… eyes that were dark brown – almost black -, contemptuous eyes that stared at her in something between curiosity and hatred…

And still, despite the disdainful way in which he was staring at her… despite the dull skin and burned wings, Tyavain saw that in front of her was a deva which could only be here by some cruel mistake fate had made.

He squinted at her; in her mind, the murmuring taints told her things and Tyavain began seeing his essence little by little and in that strange, unique language which had shaped the universe, his true name formed… It spoke of so many things, so many betrayals and yet, of an ironical twisted goodness which had never been understood…

It was so beautiful that Tyavain smiled.

His eyes momentarily bulged out, as though he hadn’t been expecting her to able to do something as simple as a smile; then, sneering, he turned his back on her and walked away.

His true name was on the verge of her lips, and she was ready to use it to order him back but… she couldn’t. Tyavain wouldn’t let her; he walked further and further away and Tyavain’s voice told her to bite down her tongue, which was so prompt to speak his name… Tyavain sobbed and cried as her mouth was filled with blood to keep the name which spoke of betrayals and a chance for redemptions away from being spoken.

He kept on walking and with him went her sanity, her good-sense and her tranquility. The voices came back so strongly that the pain was excruciating; she screamed and screamed in agony, falling onto the ground as her back threatened to split open… Tyavain felt something pulling it, mercilessly perforating the skin to drag her lungs out.

Screeching, she hugged herself and whatever was being pulled out slit her back… she begged for it to be over, but the constant hauling sensation remained, agonizing and strong.  

The girl wept on the floor, feeling the low thudding of her aching skin and muscles, seeing nothing but the dull shades of grey which painted Hades and hearing nothing but the taints… The only tiny fragment of her rational thoughts told her she was going to die there, pathetically sprawling on the floor as she tried to maintain her conscience alive …

   Something touched her, gingerly… It felt like the touch of a feather, grazing her skin as it danced around in the wind… no, not in the wind… in a cooling, calm breeze which made her feel lucid and silenced all the voices in her head except the one that was her own.

Whatever had been pulled out of her back was freed and, very carefully, whoever was holding her picked her up and turned her body so that her head was facing the grey sky. She saw the deva’s face, strained with a look she could not identify; he forced her to stand, holding on to her as the ache on her back intensified. Tyavain carved her nails onto the flesh of his chest, and muffled a cream. The lack of voices made her think more clearly and that had somehow made the pain more real.

He whispered something into her ear, in a deep, rich, melodic voice, “It’s just your wings.”

Tyavain dug her nails deeper and looked behind her shoulder to see that a large lump had formed on her back and that her dress had been cut to help it spread more freely.

A river of blood erupted and, amidst the horrid feel of being split open, Tyavain saw that jutting out from near her scapulas were a pair of large, black feathered wings.

She remembered whimpering; she remembered the tears; she remembered she started breathing heavily and that her eyelids began feeling like they were made of lead. The last thing she remembered before they fell was that, for the first time in years, she was falling asleep with only her own voice speaking his name in her head.

And so, once again, she smiled.

 

 

Yarija’s face was fleetingly touched by a grimace, somehow making it even uglier than it was; her small hands moved to her shoulder, grasping it tightly as she tried to even her breathing.

Beside her, Rekat groaned. “ _Again_!?” he complained. “Are you sure you’re well enough to do this?”

“Why, you care?” Yarija hissed, arching her back as though there was something there which was making it itch.

“No, you’re just slowing us down.”

“Oh, and who was the one who overslept—”

“Will you two stop it?” Bishop snapped. “I’m trying to listen.”

Yarija rolled her yellow eyes, muttering under her breath, “Says the chess piece.”

Bishop grunted to keep himself from snapping back at her; Yarija was an insufferable, _insufferable_ woman who brought up arguments about _anything_ she didn’t agree with; she complained a lot and fell into frequent tantrums about nothing special – like a big, emotionally screwed up nineteen-year-old child - which was what Bishop sincerely thought she was.

Still, he couldn’t shake off the first feeling he’d had when he’d first seen her; it was a major hindrance because regularly being reminded of someone you’re trying to forget is a pain in the ass, especially if you’re trying to keep as cool and as detached as you can get, but the more Bishop stared at Yarija, the more he saw Firanis.

He sighed heavily. “Rekat and I are going to get into Neverwinter through here,” he explained, pointing to the nearby bushes, “there’s a cave underneath; it has a passage into the sewers. We’ll be waiting for you inside at the meeting point.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever; remind me again why you can’t get seen?” Yarija threw back a lock of uneven hair.

“I’ve told you,” Bishop angrily wheezed, his patience running thin, “that _I_ am to remain invisible to the Shadow Thieves won’t know we’re with the Zhents, which will simplify things a lot when we’re scouting around the Neverwinter area.”

Yarija’s squinted pale yellow eyes lingered on the ranger for a moment before she declared in a wispy voice. “I have the feeling you’re hiding something, Bishop.”

Bishop opened his mouth, but it was Rekat who spoke, “Your feelings do not concern us, Yarija. Just go away and do your job; we’re already late.” The ranger waged that the thief was probably running out of patience, much like he himself was.

She threw him one of her smirks, which sent shivers down Bishop’s spine; he still did not know how nature could create someone who could make an expression that ugly. “Meeting point, then.” Yarija said, turning away from them to enter the city from the front gates.

“Why is _she_ our spare Ambassador?” Bishop asked, striding through the middle of a small bush in the direction of the hidden passage to the sewers.

“Torio had to stay in Luskan and the only person among us who has _any_ diplomatic skills besides her and Brian is Yarija.” The thief bluntly replied; apparently, to him this was an overly simple matter.

Bishop had to see it was the truth. Kalyt would most likely try to cut Nasher in half; Prarg would get even farther and go for the whole Castle; Rekat couldn’t be seen for the Shadow Thieves and as for himself... he couldn’t be seen in Neverwinter; he’d be hanged for betraying the city in the Ward of Shadows... No, not _Neverwinter_... That would have implied that he cared for the future of the city and really... he’d never been concerned about that. If he’d betrayed something, it’d been Firanis and Firanis only; the city was just a consequence that had come along with it.

The sad fact was... that little consequence he’d never paid attention to was hindering him now – big time. But then Bishop reminded himself that if he hadn’t done what he’d done, he’d most likely have ended up like the little group which ventured into the Vale of Merdelain: dead. And from where he was standing, _that_ was a much bigger hindrance than the one he was facing now.

“You may be right, but I still think Yarija’s going to scare off half the court,” Bishop commented.

Rekat arched one of his eyebrows at him. “Why, because she’s ugly?”

As he veered to the right to continue down the pathway, Bishop nodded. The other man chuckled softly, a hint of pity and condescendence on the low, mild laugh. “That is the truth, but haven’t you noticed something else about her?”

“She makes me cringe whenever she bares her teeth in an attempt of a smile,” Bishop half-heartedly admitted.

Rekat exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yes, but that’s only if you examine her closely; try only nothing more than a glimpse at her and, for a moment, she’ll seem... different, as though she might be a pleasant person.”

The ranger remembered that, the first time he’d laid eyes on Yarija and had _glimpsed_ her smile, she’d immediately reminded him of the former Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep. So, he nodded in agreement.

“Well,” Rekat went on, “I don’t know how she does it, but when Yarija wants to... she can be quite persuasive. The weirdest thing about it was that I only noticed that when Aniel said that _If you add enough honey, even the saltiest dish can become sweet_ one time, when we were stationed with her.”

“If food burns, you can’t make it sweet; it’ll always taste like burned food no matter what you do.”

Rekat smirked; Bishop didn’t quite know how to put it, but Rekat too, despite being the possibly sanest person he’d been around these past seven years, had something _off_ about him – and that much was evident in the way his light green eyes seemed to darken to contrast with his dimpled cheeks when he smirked.

When the thief spoke again, his voice was even deeper and hoarser than usual, giving the sentence a much eerier tone.  “Oh, but I never said Yarija got sweet. She just turns merely edible.”

Bishop’s lips tightened, dubious, but he said nothing. Little did he know that, in the gates of Neverwinter, a guard was experiencing the effects Rekat had just mentioned.

“Who comes?” the man asked in an authoritarian tone.

“Yarija Thress from the Hosttower of Luskan,” an acute, brisk female voice replied from under a heavy hood. “I have come due to an appointed meeting with Lord Nasher.”

“Show yourself.”

Very small, thin, pale hands reached to the hood and pulled it back; the guard slightly jerked his head back in an impulsive reaction. He remembered her; she’d come to Neverwinter before, along with Ambassador Torio. But it _still_ did not dull the effect she had in him… Lady Yarija was all black and white – save for her hair, which was a pale red and her eyes, colored a dry yellow – and the smile she wore was still as disconcerting as ever. He’d always assumed it was because a dimpled smile did not match her dark lips nor the dark circles under her eyes.

He let her in. It was impossible not to. The aura of… whatever it was… she irradiated touched him and stirred something; like that odd gaze of hers reached out and plucked some hidden emotion from his very depths. And he wanted _nothing_ but to please her.

She walked by, her tiny hands pulling once again the hood over her face; the guard realized he’d never seen Yarija Thress without the black cloak.

He shook his head. It was _not_ his business. He knew he should have interrogated her further, but it just made no sense to suspect her; plus, it wasn’t like someone with hands as fragile and as impotent as hers could do a considerable amount of harm, right?

Yarija scurried away from the main gate, aware of the guard’s eyes still on her. Her insides churned uncomfortably - a heavy pain made her stomach sink and she had to take a hand there to steady herself.

 _Not now…_ Yarija thought, _I can’t afford to be weak when I have to meet Nasher; or otherwise I won’t be as convincing as I need to be._

Her back began hurting again - burning, even - and she felt blood trickle down her back. Not good; she’d have to clean before entering the Castle; the Nine would demand her to take off the cloak.

The guards at the Castle asked her the same things as the one at the Gate; once she’d stated her purpose, they let her through.

Inside, Yarija went to a secluded corner – something normal, considering you’d have to hand everything up to someone before you could meet Nasher and some people needed things from their bags - and rummaged her backpack until she produced a handkerchief out of it and ran it through her back, unsurprised to see it stained red once she was finished; she tucked it away and went further on into the Castle.

“My Lady,” another guard called, extending a hand towards her. “You know it’s needed.”

Yarija sighed; there wasn’t much she could do and, although this measure did diminish the chances of someone taking a weapon to a meeting in order to murder Nasher, it’d have been completely useless if the assassin was truly a pro. Like Aniel. Yarija didn’t like the Zakharan much, but she had to admit, the woman had to be one of the best at what she did; not even once in their time together had Aniel got caught or even fallen under the suspicion of a murder.

She handed him her tattered backpack and watched as his eyes fell to the cloak; she shed that as well and a sudden chill ran through her spine. She was wearing her usual travel clothes – the strap of black cloth draped around her breasts, a knee-length skirt split on both sides and black boots of hardened leather which went only slightly above her ankles – showing pretty much all of Shemal’s artwork and hardly protected her from the cool Castle interior.

“My lord Nasher is awaiting you,” the Guard merely said, stepping out of the way.

Her small nose wrinkled. This one must’ve already met her, for he had not been disturbed at the cuts painted black. Perhaps it was better that way; she hated when people gaped at her because of the tattoos.

She strode into the throne room; Gods, she hoped Nasher would give her a bedroom. She stank from all the traveling through the wilderness; also, while neither Bishop nor Rekat had seemed to feel the need for a bath on the journey, _she_ had. But alas, she’d been tied to them and their limitations towards ordinary travel routes and could not stay behind – which made it pretty impossible for her to even wash her face.

Those two just had no regard for personal hygiene; Yarija felt slightly curious as to how Aniel had put up with Rekat smelling so bad for five years. Or maybe she hadn’t had to at all. Aniel had always bathed after her missions and Rekat had never been far from her _before_ and _after_ she returned.

Those two were strange as individuals, but together? Yarija had _no idea_ what went on between them. Most people said it was their plain need of sex – Aniel being a half-succubus and all and Rekat being so cool that only someone like Aniel could warm him up – and Yarija had to comply that there was a lot of sexual tension going on there; but she also thought there was something different to it; plus, from the way Bishop liked to piss Rekat off, and from the way Rekat had reacted, she could guess that the thief and the assassin had never done it together.

 _Mmmm…_ Yarija mused. _Maybe what they say about succubi kisses and their true “food” is true after all. And Aniel feels so strongly towards Rekat that she just won’t risk his life over a shag; and he, on the other hand, cares about her so much that he just won’t allow her to risk her sanity because of him._

Yarija felt her brain pause. The whole concept was so stupid she had to laugh internally. Aniel was selfish and Rekat was detached; there was no way they’d care about what happened to each other unless their own lives were involved.

She stopped in the center of the room and bowed her head. “My lord Nasher. Members of the Nine.” Her words were courteous and her gestures meaningful but inside, all she wanted to do was tell them all to bug off. She hated the falsities of the Court.

“Lady Yarija Thress,” Nasher addressed her. “You look weary.”

Her face begun to contort in a snort, but Yarija got hold of it immediately, keeping it neutral. “My journey was not an easy one; I haven’t had time to rest yet.”

“Then the matters you’ve come to discuss must be quite urgent,” one of the Nine – Sir Nevalle, she believed – commented. Yarija turned to him and smiled as lightly as she could.

“They are, Sir Nevalle. There would be no other reason for me to present myself in this dirty state were it otherwise.”

The man beside the Knight shifted in his position; Yarija frowned. Strange… she’d never seen him before, hence he was not from the Nine – or Eight, as she’d like to call them… apparently, something made their minds fantasize that one of them was still alive, even though she’d been buried under a pile of rubble. What was her name again? Firanis Hlaetlarn? Yes, that was it. Torio had spoken about her once or twice while they’d been discussing Neverwinter’s past. What was it she’d said about her? Oh yeah…

 

_“Firanis? Too trusting to have a role as big as hers; stupidly forgiving to never hold a grudge; naïve to the point believing people were incapable of bad things; so innocent that she made the worst possible choice towards her bedmate. Needless to say, in the end she ended up betrayed. But I’ve got to admit, she handled it quite well – I had expected her to break down crying and fall into a depression, but she went on and fought anyway._

_I guess that, in the space of five minutes, her whole world changed; and she was forced to change along with it. Not that I got to verify that change – a whole temple collapsed on top of her and if you ask me, the only reason they didn’t find a body was because they were all so squished under the stone that they turned to dust.”_

 

That had been it, yes, although Torio had never specified who betrayed her; not that it was important. Whoever man she’d bedded only to have him flee her, he clearly had made it so that people would forget him and was probably away from Neverwinter at the moment. Knowing Nasher and Neverwinter’s past decisions towards betrayers, if he ever returned, he’d be hung.

Yarija blinked, returning to the present; her eyes moved from the unknown man to Nasher, expectantly.

“I am afraid our audience is going to have to be delayed, my Lady Yarija.” Nasher exhaled through his mouth; mentally, Yarija grunted. She could _so_ see he was pretending to be bothered by this. “Sergeant Bevil has brought to us matters than cannot wait.”

 _Oh? So what? My matters can’t wait either!_ She formulated in her head, but bit her tongue to prevent those words from coming out. She needed to be on her best behavior if she was getting Nasher to say what she needed to learn. “I understand, my Lord.” She smiled. “When will you have the time to see me again?”

“I will have a room within the Castle arranged for you, Lady Yarija,” Nasher declared; Yarija actually felt a wave of relief wash over her – at least she wasn’t going to have to argue with Bishop and Rekat for a shared room. “You will be called again tomorrow.”

“Thank you, my Lord. I will be expecting your courier, then.” She bent down her knees and bowed down her head. “A rest of a good evening to you, my Lord. Members of the Nine.”

Yarija pivoted and turned to leave; the more distance she put between the people in the room and her, the most her insides begun hurting; it was never easy to allow her inner darkness to reach out to other people, but it made her job a lot easier – even if what came afterwards was not pretty.

Outside, a stocky maid awaited her to guide her to her room; she followed eagerly. She asked Yarija if she needed anything to which the Zhent replied “A bath.” The other woman nodded and, after opening a door, said servants would be coming with hot water for her to bathe.

Yarija’s sight was blurry by then, but she managed to walk straight into the room and lay down on the soft bed; when the water came and filled the large rectangular depression in the privy, she took off her clothes and sunk into the bathtub, allowing the steaming water to relax her sore muscles.

She’d have to leave to meet Bishop and Rekat soon, in a backroom of the Moonstone Mask; but right now, she was unable to move. Her inner darkness was still swirling inside her, making her head ache and her skin to tingle as if sharp needles were being jammed into it.

 _Everything hurts…_ Even in her thoughts, Yarija’s voice couldn’t rise above a whisper. _My feet, my legs, my stomach, my breasts… my head feels like it’s about to burst. My eyelids… they’re heavy and my lips feel swollen. Why do my lungs also burn?_

A cry of pain escaped her mouth. _Oh Gods, oh Gods… Beshaba’s misfortunes, why must you_ all _fall on me? How many of Talona’s poisons run through my veins? How much of Shar’s darkness is welled up in me?_

A spasm overcame her body; her chest jutted forward and Yarija bit back a scream of pain; tears ran down her cheeks, cool against her now hot skin; the blood also came, seeping from all the cuts: the chains, the sun, the infinities, the wings and the flowers. It tainted the water red.

But she had to endure; she’d always endured. Just… not like this. Not so strong. Someone connected to the meaning of the cuts must’ve also been changing at the same time she’d been using her inner darkness to make people see her the way she wanted; to cloud their visions.

She got out of the water, unable to stand the scent of blood which floated along with the steam…

Images flooded her mind; she saw darkness, but it wasn’t of the typical kind. No, it was the darkness of a void. A void which dared to consume everything. Someone screamed and the _pain_ inside Yarija increased. It had been a weak and uneven scream, as though its owner was shattered.

Her legs gave in and she fell onto the ground. It was getting harder and harder to breathe at each passing moment.

Then…

Another voice called, singing. The world shifted. The emptiness shrunk. The pain faded.

And Yarija was left alone, her mind completely blank as her eyes stared off at the ceiling. Something big was coming. She could feel it.

 

 

“You are out of focus,” the shiradi calmly stated.

Firanis grunted, eyelids only opening a few millimeters so she could look at Melynia, sitting cross-legged just a few inches away from her. “I am.”

“Why?”

“I feel… a disturbance,” the aasimar whispered. “In myself.”

“How so?”

“My soul, it… is twisting. The cold grips around my heart and I feel that… I am being called.”

Melynia arched a brow. “What does it call to?” she asked.

Firanis sighed heavily. “I don’t know. It feels like something is tugging at my depths; like something needs me somewhere to ease its pain.” Her blue eyes met the shiradi’s. “It’s got stronger in the last year.”

The other woman fell silent, pondering. “Maybe it is time for you to go; eight years is a long time for a mortal, Firanis.”

Firanis shook her head and tried to smile; her cheeks dimpled, but the smile was not there. “I can’t believe I’m twenty-nine already.”

“People usually only don’t believe their age when they’ve spent a great amount of time dawdling.” Melynia squinted, but her voice was still light, teacher-like. “Do you feel like you’ve been dawdling, Firanis?”

The aasimar gulped and, after taking some time to consider, nodded.

“Why?”

“I don’t know… My whole life seems to have stopped these last eight years,” She admitted, worried. “The only thing that’s really changed-” she held her breath, her forehead creasing in realization of what she was just about to say.

“Is your daughter,” Melynia completed.

“Yes. Ilwyn. She’s…” this time, her smile came naturally, spontaneously. “She’s everything I could have asked for. I owe all my friends a great deal, but without Ilwyn, I’d be…” she struggled to find the right word; when it came out, it sounded much more dramatic that she’d intended, “lost.”

“She’s your anchor,” The shiradi assessed. “You lost one long ago; she’s the one you found to replace it.”

Firanis’s eyes widened in an amazement which was mirrored by her voice. “Wow, Melynia. You really _do_ know me.”

Melynia laughed heartily. “I’ve been training you for nearly eight years. Of course I know you.”

“But you still haven’t tasted my cooking,” Firanis commented with an absolutely deadpan face. “It wounds me.”

“Your friends are to blame; if you haven’t learned how to cook yet it’s because they won’t let you anywhere near the kitchen – hence, no improvement.”

“You’d say they were right if you’d been camped with me during our travels.”

“Nonsense.” The shiradi waved her hand in front of her face in a dismissive way. “You said the same thing about sword fighting and you’re good with it now; it just took more time to master than your inane abilities.”

“You believe we can do anything as long as we put our minds to it?” Firanis asked. “That’s a little far-fetched, Melynia; a person can’t be good at everything.”

“Wrong. A person can’t be _the best_ at everything. But one can be the best at one thing and merely good at the rest. Surpassing others in one skill doesn’t mean you can neglect everything else, you know.”

Firanis moaned in exasperation; there was no point in dissuading Melynia from this point-of-view. It was the single one she refused to change. 

Perhaps the shiradi had sensed it as well, so she quickly changed the subject. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you’ve improved greatly on the past eight years.” Melynia smiled. “Whatever it was I had to teach you, it’s been done; with some parts weakly glued, but still… You can use the Silver Sword without tripping now, Firanis.”

“But my Essence still hasn’t come back as strongly as it did eight years ago.”

“Someday, it will. Now, focus. If your instincts are right, this might as well be our last training session.”

Firanis did not speak; she looked at Melynia in disbelief but the shiradi already had her eyes closed. Firanis imitated her; after a whole afternoon of practice, her limbs were complaining; it did not made her concentrating any easier.

Slowly, she focused. She begun with her breaths and their rhythm; then she moved to the soft breeze whistling away the tree branches; then, the wildlife of Arborea; then, there was the fountain of her Eldritch Power, neverending, close enough to touch but refusing to come in great quantities… or rather, it _did_ come in great quantities, but most of it escaped through a hole, plugging it…

Firanis grimaced. _That_ wound still had not healed and it was because of it that her powers were still not as strong as they should be. But why? Why did it refuse to close? Had Bishop left a gash so great in her soul that even after eight years, it still managed to inflict her very own spirit with pain?

 _You’ve left me in a mess, Bishop._ Firanis sadly divulged to herself. _You’ve hurt me far beyond what I though and still… why can’t I hate you?_

It crushed her. _Am I so weak I cannot forget someone who’s hurt me so much? Why can’t I be strong enough and let this injury close and scar at once?_

Then, a disturbance. Her eyes shot open and Melynia was staring back at her.

“I think your grandfather is here,” the shiradi whispered. “Who’d say? It _is_ time for you to go.”

“Good evening, Melynia,” a deep, balanced voice roared behind the aasimar; she tilted her head up to see Guerryn’s serene face smiling down at her.

Slowly, she got up; Firanis hadn’t seen her grandfather in a while, but his presence was still as calming as ever and she couldn’t help but to feel peaceful whenever he was near. Stepping closer, she smiled weakly at him. “Greetings, grandfather.”

“Firanis,” Guerryn stated before circling the aasimar’s waist with his free arm, hugging her. “I’m glad you are well. Has Melynia been pushing you too far?”

Firanis shook her head. “No; she’s surprisingly endured my clumsy attempts at sword fighting for all these eight years.”

The shiradi grinned. “She’s really improved, Guerryn; you’ll have to tell Eleste the changes of her stabbing herself with a fragment of the sword are next to nil now.”

“She probably already knows,” stated Guerryn. “But I think she’ll be relieved when she learns her predictions towards it were accurate.”

Firanis’s brows rose. “What does that mean?”

“After you left, Eleste thought her foresight had weakened; she couldn’t say for certain when your training would end to tell Melynia how long she’d have with you,” Guerryn told her. “But even in that feeble state, she got it right. Eight years starting from your arrival in Mertion.”

An abrupt and unexplained sadness crept over Firanis. “So… it _is_ time for me to leave.” This place was not her home; she didn’t want it to be her home… and yet to leave it all of a sudden, without a more spaced warning, it felt… heart-wrenching.

Guerryn nodded in reply. “Yes. We’ve found someone.”

Firanis’s mouth was left hanging open for a while. “Who—”

Her grandfather sighed, and she couldn’t tell if there was pity or disdain in his reply. “The last person we expected to. But we must go, Firanis. Go get your friends, because we need to leave to Mertion as soon as possible.” He pursed his lips and Firanis saw that his eyes were now filled with a shadow of contempt. “Her presence there upsets us as much as it upsets her.”

Firanis’s eyebrows quirked up, but she didn’t push the subject with her grandfather; rather, she turned to the shiradi. Upon looking at the beautiful, serene features of her trainer, Firanis was speechless; she knew the words, but they were all stuck on the back of her throat, blocked off by something.

Melynia smiled; she had a pretty smile that seemed to make her face glow like the sun above. “I enjoyed our work together, despite the initial troubles.”

Still unable to speak, Firanis nodded in agreement.

Melynia’s eyes moved slightly beyond the aasimar and Firanis heard, after a couple of seconds, that her grandfather was stepping away from them; the shiradi’s attention was all on her once again, undivided. “I’ve seen mortal people endure much less than you have and still crack under all of it,” she began in a brisk, factual tone, “you haven’t. Whatever they might tell you about curses and darkness, it won’t ever change who you are. And you’re a good person, Firanis. Stubborn sometimes and slightly _too_ forgiving – but good. But that whole selfless martyrdom thing… Please, cut it out.” She unexpectedly held Firanis’s hands in both of hers and the aasimar noticed how _warm_ Melynia was. “People – especially your friends - want to know when and why you feel bad and what’s causing it. No one expects you to endure everything all by yourself… it’s just not natural.” She stopped, seemingly gathering courage to ask something; after a while, Melynia blinked and her vivid eyes met Firanis’s. “You… you chose to carry such a burden… Why?”

Firanis’s lower lip dropped and she held her breath briefly. “I…” she began, but her throat was immensely dry for a reason; she swallowed down the lump which had formed in it and re-started. Since she was going away, she might as well give Melynia an answer; she owed the shiradi that much. “It was all my fault.”

Her heart stopped in the exact same moment she’d finished pronouncing the last word. Melynia seemed to have perceived it and gently squeezed her hands in a comforting gesture. “I noticed you’d been evading something ever since I laid eyes on you, but I never really realized what until now… It actually hurts more when you admit it but I think it’s good, Firanis. You can’t keep wallowing on your own guilt.” She squeezed her hands harder. “You’ve been trying to keep all your troubles to yourself and if you keep on doing that you’ll break. And if not for yourself, do it for your child and your friends – do not try to appear stronger than you are. Promise me you won’t.”

Firanis shook her head, tears prickling her eyes. “I can’t.” She inhaled sharply through her nose and exhaled through the mouth to keep herself from crying. “That’s exactly why I’ve kept it all to myself, Melynia. Ilwyn doesn’t need to know; no one else but me needs to know. It’d just _burden_ them instead of burdening just me.”

“That’s what we’re talking about here. If you don’t share it, it’ll soon become too heavy for you to carry alone. _Tell_ everyone how you feel. Or haven’t your friends earned your trust?”

“My trust they have… just not my pain.”

Melynia groaned, taking her heads to the sides of her head in an exasperated motion. “Sometimes you can be so frustrating, Firanis! Just… trust me on this, will you?”

“I’ll _promise_ I’ll try, Melynia. Nothing else.”

The shiradi smiled crookedly. “Then that’s all I’m asking. Someday you’ll see I’m right, Firanis and then you’ll be glad to try out the promise.” She let go of her hands and winked. “Go now. I’ve always enjoyed a good challenge and training you was just that. I’ll miss you, Firanis Hlaetlarn.”

Firanis still felt the tears on the verge of her eyes, but now they weren’t threatening to spill out. So she smiled the best she could and, in a surprisingly quick motion, hugged the shiradi who had been her trainer for nearly eight years. “And I’ll miss you, Melynia.”

The aasimar felt the other woman nod. “You shouldn’t dally any longer, then. Go do what you have to do. Be yourself.”

Firanis let go of the embrace and turned to where her grandfather stood, silently waiting for her. His eyes bore into her skull and she took one last look at Melynia; the other woman smiled warmly and waved. Then Firanis tilted her head up and, as firmly as she could, said “Let’s go.”

Her home wasn’t far away from the place where she and Melynia usually practiced. On the way there, Firanis couldn’t help but to ponder what would happen after this day; for eight years, she’d been wondering _how_ and _when_ she’d finally be able to return to Faerûn. Now that the chance had finally showed up… she questioned why her grandfather had come all of a sudden and how come they had found someone who could open a portal back to the Material Plane practically out of nowhere.

Ilwyn squeaked a “Grand-grandpa!” as soon as they’d entered the room and ran to hug the emprix deva, who scooped her up in one arm, pulling her cheek close to his as he muttered a “Hello, Ilwyn,” in return.

Firanis felt everyone’s attention on her, her companion’s eyes quizzical and questioning.

The aasimar took a deep breath in; it seemed too _big_ , so _heavy_ now… “We’re leaving,” she announced in a tone she’d hoped to sound convincing and content.

 

 

Her head was a royal, screwed up, throbbing mess.

Aniel reached out to the lamp resting on the nightstand beside her. Her skin complained against the cold air and goose bumps appeared all over it; they worsened when she sat up to light the oil-dripped cloth and the covers fell, leaving her torso exposed.

What had just been that dream about?

She looked down at her smooth hands and saw they were shivering; _her whole body_ was shivering. It had been so long since she and Rekat had connected their dreams… She had no idea why it’d happened tonight. It’d seemed like he’d been avoiding her ever since they got split up and that _incident_ took place.

Aniel wrapped her arms around herself and a sigh escaped her lips. Every single part of her that had been touched in the dream _ached_ for more; the inside of her legs was wet and _Gods_ , how needing she was!

It had not been her fault that Rekat had been unable to keep it to himself three years ago! It hadn’t been her fault that it’d been so cold either! And she couldn’t be blamed for the fact that she had _needs_ which had been enticed and neglected by _him_ for so long!

The memory of a warm fireplace and a small, solid bed came back to her; she could almost feel the warmth spreading across her body… she could almost _see_ Rekat’s profile in the dim fire light, the creases of worry on his cheeks and forehead… and the way they had all vanished when he’d thrown her a smile.

Aniel hadn’t been – and still wasn’t – sure of what made Rekat’s smile so endearingly peculiar; perhaps it was the blatant innocence the dimples conferred him; perhaps it was because it was _rare_ to see him do so; or perhaps – just _perhaps_ – it was because it was _his_. At the last thought, Aniel had shaken her head and had caught his head on her hands to take a better look at him, to find a real answer as to why she had been so hesitant and shaken all day. She’d found strange that, upon tracing the contours of his face, she already knew every mark, every freckle, every scar… There was one on the left side of his nose; then one on the right side of the chin which jumped to cut a bit of the upper lip as well; there were more on his cheeks and jaw, but they were small, almost invisible; his forehead, too, had many faded traces of previous wounds; the lines of worry which had been so frequent on his façade had stuck, rumpling what would have been the smooth surface of his cheeks and the corners of his eyes.

His eyes… again, his eyes…

When Aniel had got to those, she’d felt every fiber of her being quaking with a strange wave of thrill.

So, she’d gingerly stroked his most prominent scar – one which had nearly took his right eye. His eyelid closed under her fingers, making Aniel feel accepted; Rekat’s hand had closed around hers, its calloused surface tickling her palm; _arousing_ her sense of touch.

 _“So, I guess this is goodbye,”_ he’d said in that deep, slightly hoarse voice of his; for someone who liked to look plain, Aniel noted he had one of the sexiest voices she’d ever heard. And eyes. There was no way one couldn’t notice his eyes.

She recalled all the guilt she’d felt because of Shemal; she had smiled back at him nonetheless although it’d been sadly and forcefully. _“I guess so.”_

Another shiver; like she’d shivered when he’d raised a hand to cup one side of her face. He had not been cold, but he hadn’t been warm either. Just… normal… like a pleasant autumn evening.

Inevitably, her gaze fell on his lips; she’d kissed him before and nothing had happened but that had been when she’d been unaware of the full extent of what her succubus half could do. Aniel had never thought she could kill anyone with lust until Shemal had told her. But even if she had, that wouldn’t have made a difference; Rekat still wouldn’t have died with just a tiny kiss; Shemal hadn’t and she’d been pretty much _hungry_ when he’d given her that kiss. So why was she afraid to risk it?

 _“Aniel?”_ Rekat had called out, her name on his lips teasingly scratching her ears… Back then, she’d thought that could be the last time she would hear his voice and see those eyes and feel that touch, however superficial and scarce it might feel… Something in her had ached from acknowledging that and, as if hoping it would deny it all, without drawing her eyes from his lips, Aniel had slowly pulled Rekat down to her and had locked their mouths together. Rekat had kissed back, matching her passion with his own; he’d sent her flying throughout the sky of her emotions.

But even the sky had its limits; soon, she craved more and more, her lips moving in an almost desperate pace. Rekat was the only thing she needed and right now, she had him all to herself, so deliciously─

Back then, Aniel hadn’t known why – she still didn’t – but as soon as she’d realized she’d been about to kill him, her whole body had frozen down and she’d pulled back, unable to even breathe the heavy air around her; she’d choked on it, gasped for it, but nothing had come, as if Rekat’s _frightened_ expression had created in her a void that, for all its emptiness, refused to be filled with anything but him.

She’d searched inside herself for an answer to that and had come up with none. She just _couldn’t_ and _wouldn’t_ ever devour his emotions like that, not when he had eyes like that to look _into_ her, to see _through_ her. The realization of all that ate away at another part of her, creating some sort of an inner conflict she hadn’t understood, but she’d shut out that pain and, in doing so, had left herself open for another one.

 She _wanted_ him. She _needed_ him. But she still wouldn’t have him. And to see that _he_ now regarded her as something _dangerous_ , someone that would devour all of him just to satisfy herself… Aniel’s eyes, big and wide, looked at him with the edge of betrayal. Then she murmured against his ear, her tone full of all the constraining sadness and uncontrolled pain. “I won’t ever do that. Not to you, Rekat. Never.”

Rekat hadn’t spoken; she wished he had. Instead, he’d taken one last single look at her – one in which he seemed to drink in all of her image at once -, all but those his eyes of his hidden in the shadows of the fire and, leaving her hanging alone, he’d left.

An indescribable pain had erupted within Aniel the moment she’d noticed he’d _really_ left. For the first time in years, she’d cried until there were no more tears left to cry while hugging her knees and staring at the door.  

She snorted. She’d been so foolish, clinging on to a hope that she _knew_ would be fruitless. Rekat had never really cared and just like every other man, he’d ran away from her at the first chance he’d got because he didn’t trust her enough! A new grave in her heart had been opened and the thief, along with all those strange feelings he’d enticed in her, had been buried in it. As for the present…

Aniel heard a moan escaping the figure lying next to her; it turned until the face of its wearer was turned to her. In a way which was so familiar to her, Aniel smiled her most sensuous smile. “Slept well, Rimal?” she purred.

The handsome face of the Paladin grew slightly red as his clear blue eyes ran over every single inch of sleek skin Aniel had left uncovered. Funny… he hadn’t been this sheepish last night when he’d taken her in the backalley and certainly even less so when they’d come to her apartment. Quite on the contrary as a matter-of-fact; Rimal had done more than surpass her expectations towards finally getting a full blown Paladin to break under her will.

“This is very wrong,” was the first sentence which escaped his lips that morning. He sat up and buried his head on his hands. “Tyr forgive me… What have I−”

Aniel fought the sudden urge to roll her eyes at him; she took a hand to his shoulder and felt the muscles tighten under her touch. “Rimal,” she whispered, “didn’t you like it?”

Shock was written on every corner of his face. “Aniel, my God−”

Aniel brought her body closer to his so that she could feel _all_ of him. “Should a God deny his most devoted follower a spark of the pleasures of the flesh, then?” She raised an eyebrow at him. Her nails scratched their way down from his collarbone to his navel, running down the length of his soft member.

He grimaced and tried to free himself from her strange hold but something in Aniel kept Rimal from edging away from her. “You’re evil, Aniel.” He whispered. “Any who would’ve failed to notice how rotten your heart is would truly have been blind and yet…” He reached out to feel her silken, flawless skin; she was just too perfect to be true; but she was _real_. She was here. And she was everything he’d ever feared and coveted. “You are beautiful. How can someone like you be so beautiful and so cruel at the same time?”

Aniel’s full lips widened their smile even further. "Gods and their doctrines…” she mused, “My evilness... I guess you always thought evil things must always be abhorrent to your eyes... At least that way, you could not want them... Aren’t I right, my dear Paladin?"

Rimal sucked in a breath when she moved to nibble his neck. Teasingly, her teeth moved all the way up his jaw and the lobe of his ear. His mind told him to push her away but Tyr, how deeply insatiable was his thirst of her! Aniel smiled at him and looked from under her long eyelashes in a way that made Rimal aware of how fast his heart was beating.

Like the thin heat of a candle in a winter night, her breath played on his ear. “But you want _me_ … don’t you?”

Rimal rolled out of the bed, scared at how quickly his body was responding. Aniel leaned back on her elbows and tilted her head so that she was still looking at him.

“I can’t−” the Paladin managed.

She raised an eyebrow at him; the way he’d kicked back the covers had left her fully uncovered, a perfect marble-pale figure waiting for him on the bed… “Your God has already seen you sin, Paladin,” she stated. “To his eyes, you’re already tainted; what’s the point of abstaining now?”

Rimal covered his face with his hands; he was disgraced, he knew, but what was truly adding weight to his conscience was that there seemed to be no regrets towards it. And if there were, they vanished when Aniel rose and began walking towards him in that slow hip-swaying motion that hypnotized the Paladin. His arms found their way around her waist and his lips mashed against hers.

He always had this funny feeling whenever her lips touched any part of his body; actually, he had funny feelings with _any_ part of hers that touched him, but when that part was her lips, the world became a haze of pleasure. Sometimes, when he opened his eyes after breaking off the kiss, Rimal could swear the world was moving in slow motion and that the only reason his heart didn’t snap was because Aniel was holding something back. But she couldn’t be holding anything back, right? That would mean Aniel was even better, even more passionate than she already was and _that_ would be nearly impossible.

Rimal wasn’t sure if it were minutes or hours before they pulled away from each other. He knew that Aniel had, once again, thrown him her lopsided, dazzling smile and patted the tip of his nose with her index finger. “You should still go to the temple, you know?”

The Paladin frowned. What was she trying to do to him? He’d already betrayed his faith – now she wanted him to _lie_ about it? What next, then? Kill whoever found this little secret? Make him...

Rimal stepped back, his blue eyes wide in astonishment. Aniel belonged to the Zhents; she obeyed a cleric of Loviatar. Oh Tyr, how could he not have seen this coming? How could he have been so foolish, so...

“Paladin, we’ve done _nothing_ wrong,” Aniel affirmed as if she’d been reading his thoughts. “We’re just a man and a woman with conflicting morals,” she took a peck at his still mouth, “just because we’ve happened to fall on the same bed, it doesn’t mean any of us has to change.” She pecked his mouth again. “So as long as we don’t get in each other’s ways, we should be fine.”

He tried to find an argument logical enough to combat hers but when Rimal breathed in to focus, there was just Aniel’s intoxicating scent flaring up on his nostrils. He looked down and his eyes only saw _her_ and nothing one else. He reached out to touch but he could only feel her curves. Shutting away from all that, he tried to listen but his ears only picked up Aniel’s slow, calm breathing. In a final act of despair, he ran his tongue over his lips only to find _her taste_ was still there.

He couldn’t escape her; no matter what he did, his thoughts would always go back to her and, with them, all of his feelings, all of his wisdom and good sense.

Aniel touched the sides of his face to pull him down. Their foreheads met and she murmured. “So… what’s it going to be, _Paladin_?”

Rimal said nothing. Instead, he grabbed her by the buttocks and threw her back onto the bed. On all fours, he stood on top of Aniel, who was still wearing that same sensuous, perfect, mind-blowing smile...

He dragged her head up, yanking it by the hair. He covered her mouth with his own while his free hand kneaded Aniel’s left breast. She scratched his back and bit down his lip until she tasted blood, _testing_ his limits. But he… he no longer knew what such things were.

Upon realizing this, Aniel laughed on the inside. _Paladins definitely have a thrill to them. At least it won’t be just for Shemal’s pleasure; I can enjoy myself with him as well…_

 

 

Mertion’s sky which, when Firanis had last seen it, had been the perfect portrayal of calm and comfort, had somehow, in the last eight years, become a twisted version of its former self; the clouds seemed angry and revolted at something, turned into wisps and furiously twirling around in the air; the aasimar questioned herself further but when she was taken into a large, tall room with windows in the place of side walls, her questions dissipated and she understood _everything_.

Firanis thought she felt the core of her very own being quiver at the sight of the girl’s profile of chiseled marble, exquisite eyes of carved ice and hair of languid flames. The girl bowed her head before walking forward… each step making her curves undulate, slither, whisper; when her hands moved, the world seemed to whistle, inviting them to play; when she spoke Firanis's name, her voice was resonating, like an ancient song chanted in a temple.

"You..." Firanis whispered as the girl... no, the woman closed the distance between them. "You're the girl from back then... The girl who was not a girl, but a woman, and then became a girl again. Tyavain."

The redheaded woman nodded, pulling the long loose fringe behind an elongated, pointy ear; her movements seemed to make the air whistle and dance, as if she were a part of it and as if she’d been reading her mind, Tyavain’s thin lips curved into a sad, soft smile, showing that this was something she was used to saying many times, no matter how much it hurt her. "I am the Twice-damned; the Homeless; the Unbelonging. But here is just the other part… here is just Tyavain.”

When she moved her hand again, the world wasn't whistling. It was shattering. The ceiling seemed to spiral, dust began falling from the white walls and the big, perfectly painted glass windows to break under the shriek of the air.

When Firanis thought everything was coming down, it stopped, and Tyavain was in front of her, unmoving. Her icy eyes then looked up, past the glass ceiling and she said, “And I am not wanted here. Even the sky itself shows its rage at the knowledge that I am taking one of its daughters with me when all I brought back to it was a betrayer.”

Casavir approached her from behind, as silently as he could. “Is she really the one who can take us back?”

Guerryn nodded. “She’s recently returned from the Lower Planes with one of our fallen.” There was shame in the way he said the last word. “The Betrayer, he… said she heard us call out for her name, so he brought her here. She’s got Lower Planes blood on her veins, and in no small amount.”

“Well, she _is_ Tyavain, no doubt. There’s no mistaking it, right, Firanis?” Sand asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Firanis nodded. “Undoubtedly, she is the one I spoke about… the one whom you’ve scryed and the one who helped me eight years ago...” The aasimar paused to meet the woman’s solemn eyes. “Twice, was it not?”

Another smile crossed Tyavain’s lips; this one was reminiscing, lucid and acknowledging. “And now, it will be thrice.”

“I just don’t know how she knew you were here, Firanis,” Guerryn interjected, visibly uneasy. “She just… opened up a portal into Mertion, followed by none other than that Betrayer, and claimed she was the only one who could… bring you home.”

“Maybe if you’d only ask her, she’d give you an answer,” a deep, melodic voice surged in the room. Firanis heard Sand mutter something about “the charred stench” and “the acrid odor”, but she couldn’t associate those words with the voice she’d heard.

With the _figure_ , however, it was different.

The male deva carried himself with pride, his strikingly beautiful, perfectly shaped face with a deadly serious expression splattered over it. His muscled, toned body did not seep the luminosity that was so characteristic of the deva skin: it was brown and dull, like a cup of milk with coffee, and tainted with occasional scars. The wings, however, were what caught most of the attention; they were not of white, luxurious feathers, nor of a glowing, soothing white light: their feathers were burned, and the naked bones were dry yellow. “Why is it so hard for you, Guerryn? I thought devas were supposed to be stripped of all forms of prejudice and hatred, but you—”

The disdain in his voice was shushed when Tyavain touched his forearm and whispered. “Please, Trias.”

What Firanis noticed next was something she could never forget, despite that she knew that he was a Fallen deva… No, he was not _Fallen_ , at least not when his dark brown eyes seemed to fill with mirth and care during the seconds they were on Tyavain’s quiet frame.

“But Tyavain—” the deva began, but once again his attempts at speech were killed by a shake of Tyavain’s head. He sighed, and she removed the hand from his brown skin without any signs of hurry.

“Firanis,” the woman spoke, turning to her, “do you know how strong words can be?”

Words could be like knives; they could be like soft rose petals grazing our skin, like refreshing waters or terrifying storms. Words could hurt, maim, kill… But when used right, they could bring comfort, warmth and make a life rise anew. Firanis told Tyavain all that and the woman seemed to be surprised at her response, because her sheepish, uncertain gaze had suddenly been lifted to the level of Firanis’s own. “Yes,” Tyavain whispered, “that is all true, but there is more.

“When the Multiverse was created, it was done using a language – a very complex one – which described every single object, from the sky to a grain of sand. And when one knows that language, it is possible to shape a selected fragment of the universe at one’s will.” She tilted her head towards Guerryn and, keeping her tone neutral, said, “That is to answer your question, Mister Guerryn.”

If Firanis had ever seen her grandfather blush in a mixture of shame and uneasiness, it was then, after Tyavain had said those words to him when he’d been trying to avoid speaking directly to her ever since she’d arrived. She guessed that even devas were prone momentary issues of prejudice, but… no one was perfect and, if she’d learned something from everything which had happened to her, it was that there were always two sides to a question: the one we see and the one the others saw. Maybe Guerryn wasn’t being racist or narrow-minded, but was simply smelled something in Tyavain that had the same scent danger did.

“It’ll be… harder here,” Tyavain murmured in a seemingly great effort, making Firanis pry her gaze from her grandfather and set it back on the girl. “We’re very high in the upper planes, and the voices, they… seem to be far away, unlike they were when I was in the Lower, but,” her lips broke into a wry smile, “I think I’ll manage.” Tyavain then let out a hapless yawn and rubbed her eyes with her hands.

“You’re tired,” Trias pointed out.

“Nonsense. I’ll manage to do this today and avoid abusing of Mister Guerryn’s hospitality.”

“You _can’t_ push yourself any further and you know it, Tyavain,” Trias insisted.

“If she wants to do it now, let her do it, Betrayer,” Guerryn hissed.

Firanis was surprised; what was exactly going on here? Why all the contempt? Was it because this was not a place for Tyavain to be? Or was it because… her grandfather feared of what would happen the moment she left the safe layers of the Upper Planes?

She wasn’t sure whether it was Tyavain speaking next, or the air, or the running water of the Palace’s fountains, or the clouds outside or even the souls of everyone in the Multiverse. “Mister Guerryn,” the girl said, her voice no longer a dawdling plea, but the same chant it had been before, “you too, don’t you think it’s enough? I am here to help one who is blood of your blood, and I know it’s not on your nature to be like this.”

“Plus,” Trias added, a note of triumph in his tone, “my mother wants to talk to Tyavain _and_ your granddaughter as well. Now.”

Trias spun round and walked out of the room; Tyavain looked at Firanis and followed suit; Firanis looked at her grandfather, expecting him to give her a sign to whether she should go to the Temple or not. He seemed apprehensive for a while, his gaze lingering on Trias – but then he gave a short, tight nod and she, too, followed the charred-winged deva.

Outside, the clouds were still twisting and turning in the sky; the aasimar noticed that their movements seemed to be stronger just above where Tyavain was standing. _It must not be easy being in a place which opposes to you_ , Firanis admitted, _She’s probably the person who wants to be out of here the most._

She sighted the familiar entrance to the Temple of Savras and, inside, after being revisited by the sensation that she was walking into an abyss of light, she stood in the room with glass walls and floor.

 _And a basin._ Firanis noticed. _Eleste did get a replacement after we left._

The solar had her back turned to the door, the white robes she wore falling loose just below her scapulas; her arms were around herself as if she was feeling loss and the only person who could console her was herself. “Thank you, Trias.”

Eleste’s voice was still as clear as the glass walls which surrounded them; it also seemed to be more tired and sad. Like she’d grown accustomed to something she’d tried to admit all along but never did because it was too painful.

From the corner of her eye, Firanis perceived that Tyavain was unable to stand still; her feet were constantly moving and she kept locking and unlocking her hands.

“Stop fidgeting,” Eleste commanded, snappish. “If you had any reason to fear us, then it should have been gone by now; you haven’t been harmed nor locked up yet.”

Trias touched Tyavain’s shoulder and she looked up, mouth ajar, eyes blinking. All of a sudden, Tyavain gave away the feeling that she was feeling lost and cornered – and that it wasn’t about her that she was worrying at all.

Eleste slowly turned to face them and Firanis saw that it wasn’t only her voice that looked sad and weary; her beautiful round face, too, showed signs of it; her full, rosebud lips were pressed together to hide their tremors; her skin, once clean and translucent was now dull and deathly pale; there were shadows under her eyes and those too, seemed to have lost their shine. Firanis remembered that her cornea had been milky white and her eyes of the lightest of blues; now, her cornea was red and the irises a clouded grey.

“Firanis,” Eleste spoke her name as a greeting.

“Lady Eleste,” Firanis breathed out.

The solar gave her a slow, forced smile. Firanis felt her eyes widen at how wrong it seemed – and how pain seemed to drip from it so openly; everyone was quiet - so quiet that the aasimar could hear not only her own breath but also Tyavain and Trias’s. While the male deva’s respiration seemed fine, the girl’s was irregular and shallow and _shuddering_.

 _Tyavain’s still afraid of something_ , Firanis noted, _she knows she won’t be harmed, but still, something plagues her._

Eleste furrowed her brow; the expression, along with all the signs of exhaustion and grief made her look _old_. “Are the taints gone for now, tiefling?”

Tyavain nodded, her lips curled down in a poignant expression. Firanis saw her catching one of Trias’s hands on her own and clasp it tightly; the deva held it and squeezed it back. She realized it had been something so natural between those two that neither of them seemed conscious of the gesture – not as she or Eleste were, at least.

Ugly lines then began creasing the blond woman’s forehead – she seemed _truly_ disturbed by what she was seeing – but instead of speaking, Eleste moved forward to stand just a foot away from the crystal basin and extended her arm so that her right hand hung over it; her fingers began moving and water surged forth.

Firanis blinked; a small humanoid silhouette had formed, but it was broken. Pieces of it kept attaching and reattaching themselves together, but they never fit. It was like looking at someone trying to solve a puzzle with pieces that would never match.

“This,” Eleste’s voice came out surprisingly strong, booming throughout the circular room, “is you, Tyavain Shadowbreath. You say the taints are gone, but still you’re a stain in my spells. Why?”

Tyavain’s lips formed a thin line; when she stopped crushing them against each other they were white. “That’s because my soul is torn and broken; the taints might not be here now, but their effects take more than a couple of hours to fade away.”

“Why weren’t you like this when the moon elf scryed you eight years ago?” the solar inquired.

“He was not seeing a mad, divided being in his mind… but a single, innocent child. So that’s what came to him,” Tyavain explained; Firanis sensed a subtle hint of bitterness in her voice, but if it was indeed there, it was a well-masked one. “Not to you, though. I can see it in your eyes, Eleste, Oracle of Savras, that you resent me. It runs across your truename like flowing river, defining it as if it’s a major factor in your personality. Why?”

Eleste’s frown deepened, her face clearly displeased with the turn the conversation had taken. “What are you getting at, Twice-Damned?”

Instantly, the atmosphere in the room became as heavy as lead; Trias was eyeing his mother, full of disapproval, and Tyavain had her head tilted to one side, making her look like a bewildered child.

“You call me by one of my names, Eleste, Oracle of Savras; what do you hope to accomplish?” the young woman’s tone as clueless as her childlike expression. “Are you so filled with petty prejudice and revulsion when you look at me that you hope to make the taints surface so you’ll have an excuse to destroy me here and now?”

Firanis did not know what to say. Eleste came to look even more discontent after Tyavain’s last assumption and was scowling at the half-elven tiefling. Trias’s jaw was tightly set and she could tell he was trying _very_ hard not to lash out at his own mother.

Tyavain’s gaze flicked from the solar to the deva, whose hand still was around hers; she began moving her fingers against his in a caressing motion until his face relaxed and he was _almost_ smiling.

Firanis almost jumped at the clicking sound she’d heard in her head. Eleste wasn’t afraid of _Tyavain_ herself… Eleste was afraid of the _feelings_ between her and Trias and what they could do to her son.

“Lady Eleste, if you don’t mind, what did you have to show me?” Firanis asked. 

Eleste drew in a sharp breath, her clouded gray eyes on the aasimar; she waved her hand and the tiny frame whose pieces wouldn’t connect melted. “Trias, leave. This is not for your eyes.”

The deva stilled, so hesitant that he wasn’t even breathing. He looked surprised by Eleste’s request but her tone had been so authoritative and final that, after giving Tyavain’s hand another reassuring squeeze, Trias left without a word. Tyavain’s big blue eyes followed his every movement, causing Firanis’s heart to ache in reply; she tried to think less of it but the only way the aasimar found to describe such look was that it was one which belonged to a person who was holding on to another as if he were her very own life.

“Once, around eight years ago, a moon elf and I scryed a girl,” Eleste began, “I was strongly opposed to it. I knew who she was – not the _person_ exactly, but the essence, the core – and… I didn’t want to call her here. But when your God sends you visions o the future in which the girl showed up so often, you learn to accept you have to; I was still reluctant, however and it was only when Guerryn looked at me in that way of his that I decided favorably upon it.”

She held up her hand and pointed a finger at Tyavain. “Then _you_ came. Oddly enough, you were _sane_ and yet… I knew it would not last. I knew of your madness, of your lack of balance and of a place to call home. I knew you were damned two times over. I knew you belonged nowhere. And… and I also knew you’d bring me back my son.”

“And I did, did I not?” Tyavain intervened, one of her angular eyebrows raised.

“Have you _looked_ at him?” Eleste snapped. She giggled shortly afterwards, but there was no mirth in it. “How stupid of me; of course you have. He’s all you see, isn’t he?”

Tyavain opened her mouth only to snap it shut a few moments afterwards. Firanis felt ill at ease in the middle of the two women, especially when their argument had nothing to do with her. The half-elven tiefling was squinting fearsomely at the solar, who was staring back with her hands on her hips.

“What if he’s all I see?” Tyavain asked, challengingly.

Eleste’s breath got caught halfway down her throat in a hissing sound of surprise. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“What I _get_ , Lady Eleste, is that you’ve always hated me even though you’ve never, _ever_ have traded words with me up until now.”

“I don’t _hate_ you, I… I always was so afraid of you, Tyavain Shadowbreath,” Eleste confessed, her words so shy they could barely be heard, “and I still am because I dread that, just like you brought him back, you’ll take him away from me.”

The aasimar couldn’t help but to feel a pang of sympathy for Eleste afterwards; apparently, neither could Tyavain, because her face softened, struck with pity.

“But I won’t. I don’t even want to,” she stated; now, more than ever, Tyavain looked like the young woman she was supposed to be. “Trias is my friend and even though I sometimes feel like I depend on him, I don’t want him to feel forced to follow me for the rest of our lives. And I won’t deprive him of something we both need and only he has: a home.”

Eleste’s eyes bulged out; Firanis felt her stomach knot at how sincere and selfless Tyavain had just sounded. _This is her true self_ , the aasimar acknowledged, _devoid of any taints, without the burden of her heritage… This is Tyavain. And it’s costing Eleste so much to see she’s not some horrible monster like she wanted the girl to be._

“You say all that and yet you haven’t even realized…” Eleste whispered, but soon her voice was choked and she didn’t go on. “Nevermind. I suppose that is for the best. Now approach the basin; the Gods want you to know this.”

Firanis obeyed; Eleste chanted a few words, her hands moving about her upper body and, out of the basin came out an exquisite chess tray. One Firanis recognized from nearly eight years ago.

 _Back then she couldn’t contain her visions and I saw all the pieces in their real size… Now they’re all so small…_ Her whole body stiffened when her eyes found the only gray piece. _And Bishop’s still there…_

“Who have you met?” Eleste asked Tyavain.

The girl’s fingers moved to touch the pieces. “Firanis; the pawns,” she said; pointing to the black-skinned man Firanis had never seen and then touching him, Tyavain added. “One of my uncles.” Then, it was time for the rooks. “My mother and aunt. The other one I’ve also met when I was at Crossroad Keep. Torio Claven.” She saw her own piece and smiled. “Tyavain. And…” her lids were half-closed as the tip of her finger touched a small version of a Knight wearing a blue cloak with a silver eye. “I’ve encountered him as well… but why does his name escape me?”

Tyavain seemed deeply frustrated, with lines creasing her forehead. “He is Sir Nevalle; one of the Nine,” Firanis informed. “He was there the first time you saw me.”

It was like Tyavain had been struck by lightning. Her hand instantly moved away and she looked completely distraught; however, perhaps because she was under Eleste’s scrutiny, it took only a moment for Tyavain to compose herself.

“He made the voices go immediately quiet; I don’t know why. You had the same effect, Firanis and so did Trias, but that’s because your heritage contradicts the taints. That man is just a human… It confused me” Tyavain shook her head and nervously sighed. She extended her hand to the tray again. “I’ve also met them both.” She pointed at a striking beautiful woman and at a man surrounded by shadows. “The thief and the assassin. The Mulhorandi and the Zakharan. The half-God and the half-succubus. I remember their names clearly… he, too, has blood from a plane other than the Prime Material; she has as well, but in a more diminished quantity. I’ve also seen… Her.” Her finger now hung over a woman, tall and muscled, with a boyish haircut, shouldering a bloodied long axe. “One night. Three years ago, I believe; talking to Bishop.”

Voiced, his name seemed to take on a heavier load on her mind. “Talking to Bishop?” Firanis stuttered despite all her efforts to seem unaffected.

“Yes.” Tyavain nodded. “She wanted something from him, but he denied it. Back then I thought he’d begun admitting his feelings – too bad he was five years late.”

Firanis felt her whole body warm up and the cool down. It was not that she’d forgotten Bishop – it would have been kind of hard, considering Ilwyn – but she usually didn’t _wince_ at the mention of his name. Sure, it hurt, but not like this. Was it because there was a slight chance she’d meet him now? Or was it because Tyavain had said he’d begun admitting his feelings? _Yeah, like that’s going to happen…_ She coolly thought, _Bishop was far too scared of feeling_ anything _… and that’s what will always keep him from seeing he_ is _capable of feeling something._  

Tyavain threw Firanis a perplexed stare. “Why has your breath accelerated just now, Firanis?”

“It’s nothing. Let’s move on, shall we?”

Tyavain nodded; however, as soon as she moved her focus to another piece, her eyes widened and, for moments, her hand could’ve belonged to a statue; then, she let it feel the top of the piece, gently caressing it as though it was a living person. “Why,” she gulped down; Firanis thought she was seeing tears at the edge of her eyes, “why is Trias among the Black?”

Firanis followed where Tyavain’s gaze still hung; indeed, it _was_ Trias, with his charred wings and scarred skin but unless what she’d seen had been a fake, Firanis couldn’t even picture how the deva would oppose Tyavain.

“So now you see why it hurts so much,” Eleste murmured, “you brought him back but ultimately, when you come face-to-face with each other again… you will take him from me.”

Tyavain looked up; her eyes glistened. “I… I _can’t_. I told you, I wouldn’t _ever_ −”

“Yes, you’ve told me you’re incapable of hurting him. But is that really the whole truth? Will you still be able to say the same once the Taints come back and it’s _your_ or _his_ life that has to be given away in order for the conflict to end?”

The aasimar saw that the tears she’d suspected to be there were now confirming their presence by falling, spilling down Tyavain’s pale cheeks as she shook her head. The girl took a hand to her chest and backtracked down to the exit with nothing but ragged breaths escaping her mouth.

Firanis saw a glimpse of Trias when the door was open and Tyavain gazing up at him with an utterly scared, pained expression; she saw when Tyavain flinched as he gingerly brushed away her tears; then, with a resentful look at the solar, Trias closed the door and Firanis saw nothing else.

Eleste sighed. “Ah, Firanis... So many people wishing they could glimpse the future… They don’t really know how much of a curse it can be.”

For the first time since she’d arrived, Firanis felt that she had Eleste’s full, undivided attention. She felt an unpredictable surge of anger towards the solar and at how _casual_ she could be when she’d just sent a girl crying out of the room.

“Why did you treat Tyavain like that, then?” the aasimar bluntly asked before she could stop it.

“Because she still hasn’t realized the effect she has on him.” Eleste tilted her head towards the door. “Even you have; it takes little more than a look to understand that they’d do anything for each other.”

“If you know she’ll do anything for him, then why are you worried?”

Eleste smiled and her reddened eyes met Firanis’s; she could now say that Eleste wasn’t just _sad_ … she was completely drained. “I, too, once thought like you do now, Firanis. I thought I could face anything and move on; I thought I _had_ moved on. But things never are the way we think them to be and, in these constant tests of life… we learn to harden; we learn to fight; we learn to protect. And that’s why it’s so hard to admit what took you so long to learn is rendered to nothing when you have to save someone you love.”

“And so, to do that, you hurt _a girl_!?” Firanis gaped in disbelief. “She’s already not comfortable here and you still tell her she’s going to doom your son.”

“And she will. I tried to stop it; I tried to make it change; but they still met and they still got close and he still will die!” The solar’s small hands were tightened into fists, resting at the brim of the crystal basin. “You all judge me for how I’m acting but what would _you_ do if you noticed your daughter was heading somewhere which would only result in her death? That she would be forced to choose between the person she loved and her own life? Tell me, then, what would you do?”

Firanis took a step back at the violence with which Eleste was speaking. She bit down her lip and considered the other woman’s words; she remembered how Sand had said Eleste was a stuck up, selfish person and the recent events of the way she’d talked to Tyavain were still too vivid on her mind but… deep inside, Firanis couldn’t blame the solar. She was so drawn now, merely a shadow of her former self… as if she had finally given up on a battle which had been already lost long ago.

“I think,” Firanis began, “I think that you should try to make amends, Lady Eleste, because pointing your finger at someone and blaming them is not the right way to save your son; I don’t think he will care for Tyavain any less; he will just think you hate her because she belongs to the Lower Planes and you believe she’s dragging him down with her.”

“But it’s because of her−” Eleste’s voice was still too low, too _tired_ …

“You asked me what I would do if I saw the same happening to my daughter,” the aasimar firmly interrupted. “Ilwyn means a lot to me. You claim that I judged you by what I saw but then again, you also judged me when Ilwyn was born… based only in things you’d seen. You knew nothing of the way I felt, Lady Eleste and even though you say what’s happened to me has happened a thousand times across the planes… I don’t believe it. It couldn’t have been exactly the same because no one feels things the same way.

“So, to answer your question… If I knew my daughter loved someone so strongly enough to kill her… I would fight it. I would use up all my strength to save her but if I knew that the person also loved her back… Lady Eleste, as much as it would cost me, I would never point my finger at them the way you did at Tyavain because I know it would only hurt my child more.”

Eleste stared down at the floor, guiltily. Firanis hadn’t meant to sound harsh; yet, apparently, she had. And despite all the anger she could’ve held towards Eleste minutes ago, she moved closer and, slowly, took her hands away from the basin and tenderly unclenched the fingers. In the back of her mind, Firanis fleetingly acknowledged it was the first time she was touching Eleste and it felt like a smooth, faint river flowing through her – but she couldn’t shrug off the feeling that it was _cold_ , which, considering the part of the curse she’d inherited, was saying a lot.

“I don’t… think you’re really a bad person, Lady Eleste.” Since Eleste was clearly at the edge of her feelings, Firanis spoke as softly as she could, trying not to make the other woman snap. “You just… carry a too heavy burden and try to take loads of it out of your back the wrong way because, in the past, it was the one which worked out the quickest.”

Eleste sniffed. “How and when have I gone wrong? I never intended for this to happen… for my own son to hate me.”

Firanis’s shoulders slumped down. “I’ve made my own bad choices as well, but they were not a reason for me to give up on redeeming myself to the people I’d harmed. I believe…” she smiled slightly as the warmness of her memories came to her heart. “I believe there’s always a chance for forgiveness because, someday, we are all meant go wrong one way or another. And I also believe someday Trias will see that all you wanted was to protect him and he will finally understand you. All you have to do is make an effort towards understanding him as well.”

Eleste spun round, prying her hands out of Firanis’s, who waited patiently for the solar to finally turn to her again. Through the glass walls, the aasimar saw that the sky’s turmoil had dulled although a small fragment of it was still visible; she looked at the basin and saw her own piece there, a perfect statue of her own self but with the features set in a determination she highly doubted to possess. And then, inevitably, her eyes fell on Bishop’s, of the same shade of grey cobble stones. And she confirmed that what’s felt while talking to Melynia was true; there _wasn’t_ a great pang of hate when she looked at the small sculpture of him. There was just… a tightening of her heart, an old wound being re-opened and the screaming of her soul; but not hate.

She touched his piece, hoping it’d make the feelings more clear; instead, her heart complained further and that old stab on the back somehow began bleeding even more and her soul… in those frozen landscapes that were its home, it somehow felt even _colder_ and lonelier and shallower. But she still wasn’t able to feel any hate surfacing.

Firanis shook her head. She’d never know for sure until she saw Bishop and looked at him in the eye – and although a great deal of her hoped she’d never have to answer all these questions, a small part still lingered on the wishes that they’d cross their paths again and she’d know that she hadn’t been completely wrong about him.

“You are… too forgiving for your own good, Firanis,” Eleste said, breaking off Firanis’s concentration; it was impossible to tell if it was a compliment or an insult which had been disguised on her sentence. “At times, it might be a good quality for on to have… but I fear that it will ultimately prove to be your doom.”

“Someone has to be that way.” Firanis affirmed. “There’s already so much suffering out there; there’d only be more if no one was there to be _too forgiving_ , Lady Eleste and I don’t think I’d want my daughter to grow up in a world where forgiveness is rare.”

“Ilmater must be proud to count you among his followers, then,” said the solar. “Someone who forgives like you do even though it might bring you pain in return is rare indeed.”

The corner of Firanis’s lips rose up. “There are limits to my forgiveness as well.”

Eleste stood silent for another while, contemplating the thoughts in her head. A frown creased her forehead when she spoke again. “But you were still willing to forgive that man even though he walked out on you. You _did_ forgive him, at least enough to let him walk away.”

“Sometimes your feelings get ahead of your logic.”

“I know. That’s exactly why things tend to go wrong; we feel instead of think.” Eleste waved her hand and the watery chess tray crumbled into crystal clear watery drops which fell back onto the basin. “What will you do, then? Once you get down to the Prime Material?”

“I really don’t know.” The aasimar shrugged. “I don’t know how things are down there but if I really have to meet with the other three you and my,” Firanis’s tongue got stuck as she still wasn’t used to calling Esmerelle her _mother_ ; the word came out with surprising ease though, “mother warned me about, I suppose I will know. That’s how things have always been.”

“Except that before you didn’t know you’d been cursed,” Eleste coolly added.

“Perhaps. Although it’s just like I’ve been told countless times: just because I _know_ something might drive me over the edge, it doesn’t mean I have to submit myself to its will. It’s always been there and somehow, I’ve been able to resist it.”

“I sincerely hope you do…” Firanis could read the hesitation on Eleste’s manner. “Your… grandfather would suffer greatly if you did not.”

Firanis looked up, scrutinizing the solemn face of the solar; she could say that the other woman was fighting not to let her emotions show and was failing miserably. Like she had that day, when the last battle against the King of Shadows had taken place. There had been sadness and despair when she’d talked about Trias and Tyavain but they’d been under some sort of tight control; now, upon mentioning her grandfather, everything was slipping away from Eleste as though it was the last drop needed to overflow the glass of water…

How… how could she have not seen it before? It was so plain, so obvious. “For the Gods,” she whispered, “you’re in love with Guerryn.”

Eleste nodded; little by little, her control slipped further and Firanis saw that, beyond the emotions she’d already seen there, there were utmost defeat and the overwhelming traces of an unrequited love. “What difference does it make that I am? He won’t ever look at me the way he looked at your grandmother; to Guerryn, I’m just−”

“Someone he trusts greatly; someone he cares about,” Firanis completed. “Just because he hasn’t _said_ he loves you, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t.”

“How do you know someone loves you back, then?”

“Lady Eleste, words can be as meaningful as you want them to. To Tyavain, for instance, they mean _a lot_ ; I think they can be powerful in some cases as well but in others, they’re not even _needed_. It’s just like when you realize _you_ are the one in love with someone; you don’t have to tell yourself that you are – you just _know_ and that’s it.” She smiled comfortingly at the solar. “All you have to do is take a _real_ look and you’ll know.”

Eleste let her breath hold for a while and then sighed. “All this talk and I haven’t even told you the reason I called you here.” She shook her head. “I guess I am, after all, too selfish for someone of my standing.

“What I am not, Firanis, is powerful,” Eleste admitted. “I may be a solar, but still… the deity I follow is powerless when compared to the most important ones.” She gave Firanis a lopsided grin. “Not that I mind. I am grateful for the power Savras has bestowed upon me, however small its influence might be. Maybe it is exactly why he’s not a major deity that I can help you so… and maybe I won’t regret helping you like I’d dreaded at first.”

She produced a small transparent ring from her robes. “This is my gift to you, Firanis Hlaetlarn. It is made of the clean and unpolluted waters of our Lake and has the Blessing of Savras upon it; with such a curse upon you, I think… I think it might come in handy later on.”

Firanis took the ring from the solar’s hand; it was chilly to the touch and the water which had shaped it seemed to be liquid between the walls of the ring; she noticed the small, nearly invisible runes inscribed upon its surface. “A Charm?”

“Of sorts. You’ll know the meaning of it when the time comes.” Eleste smiled the first real smile Firanis had seen in her; it made the solar more beautiful that she’d ever been, despite all the wrinkles of worry and haunted eyes. “I think it’s your time to leave now; meeting you was… less painful than I’d expected. And helping you was… not forceful at all.”

Firanis bowed down her head. "I thank you for your help, Lady Eleste. And… I believe that you will find what you’re looking for.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” Firanis nodded. “You might be surprised that, after so many years, some things can change with the blink of an eye.”

Eleste turned to the window. “We shall see. Goodbye, Firanis and good luck.”

Firanis turned and left the room; Eleste possibly already _knew_ what was going to happen and she’d wished her luck why? She’d _never_ wished her luck. Was she trying to act casual when she’d seen something terrible happening? Or had this talk really changed all of the solar’s views? Most likely not; Eleste didn’t seem to be able to redeem her views on someone so quickly.

Outside, she met up with Tyavain and Trias. When Trias saw her, he moved away from the wall he’d been leaning against and extended a hand towards the half-elven tiefling, whose eyes were downcast. “Come, I’ll take you to where the others are.”

“There’s no need, Trias,” Tyavain croaked in a hoarse, shy voice.

“I insist.”

“Trias, _no_.”

The deva’s hand curled up into a fist but relaxed almost immediately afterwards. “Tyavain, please… this _is_ our farewell.”

The aasimar felt like an intruder when Tyavain looked up from Trias’s hands to his face, her light blue eyes a sea of confusion and desolation; Firanis felt her chest suffocating at the sight of that expression, because it was one she knew all too well… and because she _knew_ that the deva and the tiefling loved each other… but were both painfully unaware of it.

It was so reminiscent of her own situation that she had to avert her eyes to stop the most painful memories of surfacing again. “You know, Trias,” she heard Tyavain whisper as a breeze of uncertainty rushed into the room to tickle her skin, like Tyavain wanted to say something but was fighting against it. “I do really think you’ve got the most beautiful wings.”

The breeze of uncertainty was replaced with a wave of warmth; Firanis looked at the couple again and saw them involved in a tender, wordless embrace. There was nothing she could use to describe how it felt to look at how they held each other. Trias had one hand resting on Tyavain’s thin waist while the other cradled her head; Tyavain, on the other hand, had one around his neck and the other placed on his chest, along with her head; it was a perfect balance of madness and sanity, good and evil and taints and blessings.

It was Tyavain who first pulled away from the heart-wrenching scene. And still she did not speak, limiting herself to only look into Trias’s brown eyes for a couple of long moments; then she rose slightly on the balls of her feet, traced his lips with her thumb and, after a brief wavering, planted a faded kiss on his neck.

For the whole time her lips were on his skin, Trias stood still, eyes closed. Slowly, he let his grip around Tyavain fall, allowing her to step back. The world collapsed and crumbled; as Tyavain placed even more distance between her and Trias, the world collapsed further, screeching in a tattered, impossible pain. 

Firanis never saw Trias open his eyes again. Tyavain slipped past her and wheezed a, “Come on… let’s go home,” and clasped her hand, dragging her out. She looked from Tyavain’s hand to the entrance of the temple and then to Tyavain’s rigid face.

_So even someone who says words are the root of everything knows that sometimes words are best left unspoken because, even if they’d been used, they’d never be able to convey our true feelings at all…_

In the Main Hall, Yarija paced.

She’d been so utterly taken by surprise when he’d showed up in Luskan – after all, he hated Luskan, often calling it a necessary pillar of waste – that she’d hardly managed to control the emotions of revulsion which floated at the surface of her skin; and now they were delving deeper and deeper into her body, attaching themselves to every organ, membrane and cell she possessed.

Indeed, being back in Neverwinter had never been pleasant but today, with Shemal’s presence rubbing against her core like barbed wire on human flesh, it was more detestable than it’d ever been; why had he decided to come anyway? Did he think she wasn’t able to handle the Eight and their Master Fool on her own? Certainly not! He _knew_ her limitations better than anyone else and surely dealing with a group of handicapped warriors wasn’t among them.

“Will you stay still, Yarija? My head is getting tired of watching you walk around in circles!” commanded Vasjra in a tone which was far from her usual low hiss.

Yarija stopped and squinted at the half-drow, her nose wrinkling in disdain. As if Shemal only wasn’t already bad enough, _Vasjra_ , too, had returned to Luskan along with Aniel; Yarija wished she’d done like the half-succubus and had stayed there, but no… she’d tagged along to Neverwinter as well. And Torio hadn’t been able to come because she’d been filling in Aniel on their situation! _She_ could’ve done that instead! But alas, Shemal had insisted she be the one to come here. Why must he insist in torture her so?

“My Lord, my Ladies.” The guard nodded towards them. “You can go in now.”

Yarija snorted at how Vasjra seemed to _stop_ to behold as Shemal swaggered into the room. True, on the outside, Shemal had to be the most handsome, beautiful man she’d ever seen but really, couldn’t they feel how deeply twisted and rotten he was on the inside? To her, it was so plain, like a big signal displayed across his features, taking all the attractiveness out of them. And yet she _owed him_ her life. A debt she’d never be free of, as he constantly liked to remind her; they were tied together by blood, knife and spirit and she could never undo that. Not while she had these spellbound scars all over her body.

She followed him into the room, Vasjra by her side. As usual, Nasher sat in his throne at the top of the grey marble steps; by his right side was Sir Nevalle, followed by Sir Grayson Corett, who, if she’d remembered correctly, had risen to the position after a certain Lord Callum had fallen in the previous war, a pretty auburn-haired woman whose name was Lenya and Cormick, a powerfully-built man. At his left were Sir Darmon and the other three members of the Nine: a human man, the shady Sir Edmund, a female half-elf with a quick, lithe air about her – Jenna – and a blonde, beautiful warrior woman who went by the name of Katriona. And, as always, they were missing one member which would make them for what they called themselves: _Nine_.

Shemal bent his torso in an abnormally flourished bow; Yarija did the same but in a far more modest manner; Vasjra frowned because, as Yarija thought, she’d probably never thought Shemal had to show respect for someone much less for a circle of weak clowns. Yarija certainly hoped he would not follow the pleasantries of the Court, though – it’d make everything so much more interesting; regrettably, Shemal was as smart as he was good-looking and he knew how to sway a crowd in his favor.

Yarija’s eyes caught someone staring at her in the shadows – most likely one of the higher agents of the thieves as their little pawn, Sir Edmund couldn’t be the only one of them to behold Shemal’s rare visits to anywhere which excluded the territories the Zhentarim ruled. A smirk crossed her face as she reckoned the Shadow Thieves were practically the only ones still managing to keep Neverwinter out of their grasp – and the ultimate proof someone could see _past_ Shemal’s carefully planned deception.

It was pretty much the same thing she’d been through before; first began the major pointless talk on the truce: Neverwinter would let the Luskans into their trading operations and would grant their representative a place in the Council. Nasher would refuse as, apparently, he was quite content with his collaboration with the Thieves to risk his comfort over betting in the Luskans. From the looks of it, it was as clear as water _who_ was behind the Luskans… just like it was perfectly obvious _who_ was behind Nasher.

The only difference between this time and the others was that Shemal was here today. When Nasher said he’d not be able to let the Luskans have more of a place in the Court than they already had, Shemal had smiled in the most understanding way he could.

“I know why you are so wary, my Lord,” said he in his deep, honeyed voice. “But all of the Luskan’s offences were done under other rulers, not under _me_. I’d never break your trust.” It was a wonder Shemal could fake a dutiful tone so well; but more of a wonder was that Nasher seemed to be resisting it. Now _that_ had to be a first.

Yarija caught Vasjra shaking her head; she looked back at Lord Nasher whose face was set with grim determination. “It is as I’ve been telling Ambassador Torio and Yarija these past years – you will not be given a more prominent position among our Court.”

“Are you aware, my Lord Nasher, that it is I who control all your nearby trade routes?” Shemal crooned. It was like he was talking to a child but deep inside Yarija knew that if pushed any further, he would be far too deadly; she secretly wished that something would make him stop, for otherwise, even _she_ would be feeling the consequences of what would come.

Nasher raised his voice to a more commanding tone, “Are you? Do you control Waterdeep as well, Shemal of the Zhentarim?”

Shemal chuckled. “No. But I control Longsdale, Yartar, Mirabar and Luskan which are your nearest and most comfortable trade routes.” He took a step forward, defiant. “Or do you think you can survive only by trading with Waterdeep? Are you willing to _risk_ your city and her people’s lives when all it would cost you would be to raise Luskan’s standing in your Council?”

“It will be more of a risk to my people if I let you in,” Nasher responded, gritting his teeth.

“And you are willing to risk a war?”

Sir Nevalle stirred in his position, looking down to Shemal in something that could be confused with either fear or disgust. “What is it that Neverwinter holds that you have such great interest in?” he asked.

Shemal smiled. “Why indeed; a city which has been so recently rebuilt over a war… Same thing in the people department as only either very dumb or very weak people remained because, for eight years the famed Nine have only been Eight.”

At this, Nasher stood up. Shemal took another step forward and when Yarija thought he _was_ going to attack the ruler of Neverwinter, a bright, shimmering ellipse of white light appeared between them. The deep feeling of unease in her stomach grew; a guard gasped and she knew it was because she was probably bleeding on her back as she began feeling the familiar re-shaping of the cuts.

Her sight became hazy; still, she discerned one, two, three… eleven figures stepping out of the portal; it closed and the last one fell; someone with quick reflexes kept that person from hitting the ground.

Afterwards, there was a ruckus which rivaled the throbbing in her head; she coughed, her pale hands stained with blood. Through her blurry eyes, she spotted Vasjra standing a few feet from her, one of the corners of her dark lips raised in satisfaction; Shemal, the only clear figure among the wispy room, irradiated the same sensation about him although, as he turned, Yarija could see that he was masking it perfectly, as his face was completely neutral. He threw her a pitiful look before spinning round again, his head tilted slightly upwards. Yarija followed it and stopped when she saw a copper-haired woman clutching a young girl tightly against her side. They were both clear, lucid, _unwavering_ to Yarija’s diseased sight as well. She could even see how the woman’s rounded, rusty eyebrows were raised, how her eyes bulged out and how her small, pink lips were parted… how her pretty, round face was struck by horrible surprise.

The beeping on her ears worsened. Shemal said something and she couldn’t tell what. The woman’s lips moved in reply and Yarija still didn’t catch anything coherent. A dark form waved in front of her and, upon scanning her surroundings and seeing a coiling shape there, Yarija knew that it was Vasjra keeping someone from _helping_ her with all the bleeding.

For the next minutes, the world was a constant beep, accompanied by the movement of Shemal’s and the woman’s lips… and the girl, scared and lost, burying her head on the side of the woman’s waist. The whole time, the woman brushed the girl’s cashew hair with her hand, preparing her for something she _knew_ she was going to do…

In a split second, the pain became unbearable, protruding from everywhere inside her. Yarija fought everything not to let out any signs of it but she must’ve let something go because the girl instantly turned to her. Her face was sharper than her mother’s and her eyes were of a very light brown, almost amber, glistening with unshed tears.

Yarija knew that face; it was one she’d worn many, many years ago, right before Shemal had come. The girl’s mouth moved and a violent, yet welcome rush of clarity came to her. Yarija flexed her fingers and felt how sticky they were; she must’ve bled a lot from all her cuts, more than usual at the very least. There were so many expressions of horror thrown at her and really, could she blame them? She must’ve looked no better than an undead, standing there, unmoving, while bleeding from scarred wounds.

Shemal moved, stepping closer to her. “Come on, Yarija, they’ve given us a room.”

“You…” Yarija gulped down the lump on her throat; by Talos’s rage, even her _throat_ hurt! “You negotiated… with… them?”

A low, deep chuckle stirred his throat. “Oh indeed… not that it will last, though.” He stole a sideways glance at the newly arrived woman – now surrounded by half of the Nine and smirked. “No, I’m afraid that I’m taking all I want from this city.”

 


	10. Minuet: Cold, Resonation, Divided

**_Minuet_ **

_“And so the Queen enters the Viper’s Nest.”_

_She smirked. “That’s such a bad name to be calling my people, you know? But I wonder…” Her thin fingers rested on the head of the queen, tilting the small figure. “How will your Queen fare when she is confronted with the darkness which lies within…”_

_He shook his head. “I’m more worried about what happens when she meets the gray.”_

_“Why would that be?”_

_“Because, my dear, he is the one piece I cannot predict.”_

### Ten

_Cold_

_Resonation_

_Divided_

 

 _“Mom, don’t leave me,” s_ he’d pleaded, voice meek and scared. Her tiny hands had clutched her mother’s skirt so tightly the knuckles had turned white.

_“Ilwyn, you have to stay outside; mommy’s going to do some grown-up, boring stuff right now.”_

_“Please, mom… I… I…”_ she’d hiccupped then and, almost desperate,her mother had looked at the gray-haired man; he’d nodded.

Ilwyn had sat on her mother’s lap and had curled up in a ball, listening as her mother answered all the questions regarding where she’d been in the past eight years. From the way everyone drunk in her mother’s words, patiently deferring for her to finish, Ilwyn waged she was someone important in this place. And as her mother went on, she too, learned lots of things she didn’t know… no one had talked about them back in Arborea as though there were rules among her aunts and uncles which made such talks forbidden… Like her mother nearly dying to bring everyone to the Upper Planes and when she was giving birth to her; like she had to move to Arborea because her powers wouldn’t come back to her as strong as they once had; like they’d waited and waited until someone – the redheaded woman, Tyavain - mended the connection between the planes and brought them here.

Her mother’s tone was so formal and detached… yet Ilwyn noticed her soul was screaming loud and agonizingly… it’d been doing so ever since they’d crossed the portal and she’d seen the man – too beautiful to be real, like a fairytale prince – looking at her. Ilwyn had not liked the way with which he’d met her mother’s eyes; it reminded her too much of someone hungry who was just seeing the most desirable, delicious plate of food in front of him.

The way he’d spoken to her mother had, too, sent shivers down Ilwyn’s spine. It had been far too polite, far too husky, far too pleasant… So unlike his soul which had spoken only of hunting and deceit and possession.

“Then are we conceding him his request?” a dark-haired man asked.

“We cannot let Firanis go with him into Luskan!” exclaimed the hard-faced, yet beautiful, blonde woman.

“Katriona, I’m afraid that I have to go, lest Neverwinter be crushed,” her mother stated; she sounded so calm and secure and yet, Ilwyn knew she was feeling the complete opposite on the inside. Ilwyn tightened her grip on mother’s waist and pressed her head against her chest; Firanis reacted by gently cupping the girl’s head with one of her cold hands.

“Why say he’d keep from invading if _you_ went with him all of a sudden, then?” some other man asked. Ilwyn couldn’t see who.

“That’s because he and I have something in common. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to beat him in that game for now.” Firanis replied. “But you can think of this as a reconnaissance mission, if it helps.”

“What do you have in common, then?” asked the voice which Ilwyn believed to belong to the grey-haired crowned man.

Her mother’s soul ached for a moment before she answered. “A curse. And he probably thinks I’m one of the keys to unlocking it.”

“And you’re still willing to go even though you’ve just arrived?”

Her mother nodded. “You told me Neverwinter is not in the position to hold off their attack; that, added with the fact that I also need to know about this curse, gives me two very strong reasons to go.”

“How do you know all that?”

“I was warned in the Upper Planes; I have to admit though, I did not expect to have to go so soon.” Firanis’s voice was wispy and ragged. Ilwyn was truly scared now… her mother was _going away_ \- away with that man. And she was leaving her _here_. Ilwyn did not want it; she didn’t want her mother to go and leave her alone.

She must’ve started crying because her mother’s attention drifted to her; cool, soft lips were pressed against her forehead in a kiss and her mother’s breath wheezed against her skin as she spoke, “Ilwyn, don’t cry… Mom hates when you cry.”

“You know you’ll likely be in the midst of sick, twisted people, don‘t you, Firanis?” the crowned man’s voice asked. “From what Ambassador Torio has told us, there’s just a circle of burning hatred formed between them; it’s not pleasant.”

Firanis turned her head to rest her cheek on top of Ilwyn’s head. “I know. But I still have to go or we’ll have those people running Neverwinter as well.”

The girl looked up to her mother’s face; how could she look so serene when she _knew_ she was walking into a trap? How could she lie so much about the way she really felt towards going away?

“I’ll go with you,” Ilwyn whispered; she felt everyone’s eyes turn to her. Her mother’s lower lip trembled. “You can’t go alone, mom and I… I don’t want to be away from you.”

Her mother placed a hand behind her head and pulled Ilwyn towards her. “You can’t go, Ilwyn.”

“Why?”

“Because mom wants you here, where it’s safe,” her mother was trying to comfort her but those words only brought further worry and fear.

“And _I_ want you safe, mom.” Against her mother’s chest, her voice was muffled. “You’re not healed; the man’s soul spoke of so many things – most of them I didn’t understand – but still… He’ll hurt you. I know he will.”

“He won’t. I’ll be fine, Ilwyn.”

“But−”

Someone put an arm on her shoulder; it was a vague, weak touch. “I will tell you whether your mother’s all right or not, Ilwyn.” The woman who’d got them out of Mertion said.

Ilwyn turned to her; the woman had collapsed immediately after crossing the portal, into the arms of a Knight but had woken up shortly afterwards. Her eyes were tremendously haunted now and her skin was ashen-pale; her core was struck in some kind of inner conflict Ilwyn couldn’t understand; but despite all that, the woman smiled at her, softly. “How will you know?”

“I will, if I ask here.” Her finger tapped her head. “And don’t worry; I’ll be able to tell you the truth.” 

“Tyavain, you don’t have to do that,” Firanis spoke. “You’ve helped so much already… you can go back home.”

Ilwyn failed to decipher what happened to Tyavain’s soul next. It was so conflicted, so confused… As though it was torn in half and the two parts were fighting…

Wait… no, not in half. In three. Yes… Tyavain’s soul spoke with three different tunes, with the third muted down, subdued by the other two. Tyavain stared ahead, unblinkingly, the voice of her soul unbelievingly loud; she then smiled, shaking her head. “We both know that I have to stay here, Firanis. Plus… my mother’s family lives here. It’s my−“

Bewilderment hit her again, though her face didn’t show it. Ilwyn saw her mother reach out to touch the woman’s arm – and Tyavain winced in surprise.

“You should go rest,” her mother advised.

“I should,” Tyavain agreed, her soul no longer a mess of disconnected screams but a solid, united block; Ilwyn wondered how she didn’t feel uncomfortable with everyone’s head turned to her. “I’ll come by tomorrow, then.” She bowed her head to everyone and left the room, her steps heavy.

When she closed the door, the blonde man who’d caught her asked, “Is she−”

“Tyavain Shadowbreath. Radrien’s niece,” the crowned man completed. Ilwyn didn’t really know why, but it sounded as if he was trying to hide something in the sentence he’d just spoke; his soul’s cries grazed her in a very unpleasant way.

“Amaya’s daughter, Nevalle,” the dark, shadowy man stated. “She was the talk of the city some years ago. But I thought she was in Amn…”

 “You’ve met her before, remember?” aunt Neeshka butted in. “The night you made Firanis one of the Nine?”

The blond man’s – Nevalle’s – eyebrows rose up and he fell back on the chair. “She’s… _her_?”

“Back in Mertion, she didn’t say she’d come from Amn,” her mother frowned, thoughtful.

“She hadn’t,” Uncle Ammon’s coarse voice reached her years. “She had the Lower Planes scent on her.”

“And – _ugh_ – the Blood Wars’,” Uncle Sand added.

“Do you really think we should trust her?” inquired the blonde woman. She was beautiful, Ilwyn thought, but not in the soft way her mother was; this woman’s good looks had some hard edge to it that reminded Ilwyn of a diamond. “I mean, she clearly is _not_ very sane and her family history−”

“And since when should people be judged by their families, Katriona?” It was one of the rare times in which Ilwyn was hearing her mother talking crudely, with a tone that could very well have been made of steel. “Tyavain’s her own person. Whatever her family’s done in the past, she’s not to be accounted for it.”

“So you’d trust someone who came from a family of burglars like you’d trust one who’d come from a decent place?” asked the woman whose hair was like the brown leaves of an autumn tree.

Her mother’s eyes fell on Aunt Neeshka for a while. “I have and don’t regret it,” she affirmed. “And I know Tyavain is reliable.”

“From what I recall from my time as a Greycloak under you at Crossroad Keep,” it was the same woman speaking but now her voice hinted at irritation and suspicion, “you also thought the ranger was reliable. We ended up with a broken gate _and_ a higher death count.”

Ilwyn felt her mother’s arms tighten around her; her manner of speech however, remained steady and neutral. “And unless my memory is deceiving me, _I_ was the first one to stand in the front of the Keep’s Defenses.”

“Of course you were! Your conscience was too heavy−”

“Lenya,” the man beside her softly called, trying to calm her down.

Ilwyn closed her eyes shut when woman slammed her fists onto the table, not heeding her companion’s council, “upon knowing not even _whoring_ yourself was enough to make him stay!”

Ilwyn, not knowing what the woman was accusing her mother of – what was the meaning if _whoring_ anyway? She’d have to ask Uncle Sand sometime; he always knew the meaning of complicated words - looked up at Firanis; she began feeling the cold emanating from her mother’s soft skin. Firanis’s essence screamed in a way which was so familiarly filled with suppressed pain and disorder and despair; her lips were hardened and her eyes fixated on the woman’s…

“Lenya, _stop_ ,” the crowned man ordered.

She didn’t; Ilwyn wished she had because what she was hearing from the core of her mother’s spirit was chafing, _hurtful_. The woman spoke with a nearly breaking voice, but Ilwyn couldn’t see if it was due to tears or tension, for she’d closed her eyes shut in the hopes of blocking everything off her. It was always like this when her mother’s soul wailed. Were it anyone else, she’d just _hear_ it, but when it came to her mother, it was different. Ilwyn thought it was because her mother’s soul was all tattered, broken and pierced and was closer to hers than any other’s that all the emotions leaked from it more easily and she _felt_ them prickle and sting the surface of her skin…

“I am sorry that you lost someone,” Firanis’s voice echoed in her child’s ears, “but in war, you must be prepared for such things.”

“How can you know when you weren’t there?”

“How can _you_ know enough to judge me, then? I _may_ not know how you felt, Lenya, but _you_ also know nothing of what _I_ felt.” As her mother sucked in a breath, Ilwyn felt all the emotions within her pile up and constrict. “Instead of criticizing me, maybe you should first criticize yourself. Only by knowing where you failed will you know where others are failing as well.”

In the silence that followed, Ilwyn blinked. Was it her or her mother had just sounded like Aunt Zhjaeve?

“Lenya, quiet. We are not here to discuss that!” This time, the crowned man’s voice had a more final tone. The woman muttered and apology which, apparently, meant she was going to respect it. “Firanis, are you sure it’s worth going to Luskan?”

“I am,” Firanis firmly stated. “Almost eight years ago, a Solar – Savras’s Oracle – told me a war would spawn and it would be Shemal who’d do so. And that I was among the people who’d fight it. It’s not something I can escape, Lord Nasher – so I might as well hit this matter head on instead of just dawdling around while waiting for the Zhents to strike.”

“There’s still the chance Shemal might kill you while you’re there,” the brooding, shadowy Knight pointed out.

Her mother focused for a while before responding. “I don’t think so, Sir Edmund; I’m far more valuable to Shemal alive. Still, if he _does_ indeed kill me, then you must ready yourselves for war and summon your allies from Waterdeep.”

“How will we know you’re alive then?” Sir Nevalle asked.

“If Ilwyn plans on asking Tyavain how I am every day,” Firanis’s head moved to comb her child’s soft hair, smiling, “Tyavain will know if something happened. Else—”

“If you leave the Silver Sword of Gith here, we will _know_.” Zhjaeve calmly suggested. “When you were in the brink of death, its glow dulled and the fragments didn’t hold together; if you do indeed leave this life, the Sword will die with you.”

Ilwyn shivered. She didn’t like this talk of _death_. It made her grow even more scared than she already was.

Her mother nodded. She spoke more about what she would do once she was among the enemy and Ilwyn bit down her lip, knowing she was close to crying now. She didn’t want her mother to go; she didn’t want her to be in any more pain than she already was; but her mother _insisted_ and from tomorrow, they’d be apart…

She remembered the tales Uncle Grobnar had told her – the ones that made sense and had no mention of the Wendersnaven. In them, the good people always won. They always overcame all obstacles. They were invincible. And her mother was a good person, despite all the darkness which lurked inside her; she was strong, too. But she was not whole.

Tears stung Ilwyn’s eyes again and she buried her head deep in her mother’s chest so no one would see. Deep inside, she knew the man of fire wouldn’t kill her mother… and even though she didn’t understand what she’d seen in his soul, she knew it was bad, for it had left her trembling and nauseated. It didn’t help when she looked at the black and white lady, with eyes like glowing amber and skin stained with blood and had seen she, too, felt the same thing about the man - Shemal, as her mother had called him.

It had been unknown to her when she’d seen it… but now, upon hearing that her mother might die, a feeling much like the one she’d seen in that woman had brewed inside her and was growing fast, like the worms which had, occasionally, been found on aunt Elanee’s garden, fat and greedy with the excess of the delicious vegetables…

Ilwyn’s closed eyelids shuddered. A constant nagging at her heart, the non-stopping horrible images in her head and the incapability to change the situation, forcefully waiting for someone else to make a move… She’d never felt anything like this before because her life had been so safe, so comfortable and her mother had always been there… And Ilwyn finally knew what _true fear_ felt like.

 

 

Aniel let out a weary groan. She was tired, having ridden from Yartar to Luskan at a merciless, non-stopping pace. At least she could count herself lucky for not being forced to go to Neverwinter as well, like Vasjra had. The muscles of her legs and back complained, aching at every single move she made.

“Why was Vasjra so rushed into getting here?” she asked Torio, who sat across from her.

“Lord Shemal arrived last night from his stronghold.” The Luskan arched a brow. “Didn’t Vasjra tell you why?”

Aniel snorted. She tried stretching her legs but the cramps stopped her. “As if Vasjra tells me anything. I barely had time to come up with a plausible lie to tell the Paladin.”

“I remember hearing about that,” said Torio. “Which Paladin were you after in Yartar? Last time one of them came here with the embassy−”

“Rimal. He was the one who came.” Aniel smiled, flipping her hair. “I came here as well at that time.”

Torio paused to ponder. “Rimal… Rimal Faustus de la Pallen?”

Aniel found the incredulity on the Ambassador’s voice peculiar. “Why are you so surprised?”

“He’s the brother of one of the Nine,” informed the other woman. “No wonder Lord Shemal went to Neverwinter to make an ultimatum - Nevalle _won’t_ be happy to find out his little brother fell for one of the Zhents.” She intertwined her fingers and rested her chin in them. “For how long has he been in your bed?”

The thought back, frowning. “We’d been playing together for a while, but I only got him in a _bed_ a month ago; and it was only yesterday that I managed to have him wield completely.” She kind of liked how casual and business-like the Ambassador was being about this; the people who she’d talked to before had made it look like as if _she_ needed to get laid real bad and it frankly had got to her nerves. True, Rimal was enjoyable and she _might_ have, eventually in her long stay in Yartar, tried to play with him once in a while – but never like she had done under Shemal’s orders. Having a man _that_ obsessed with you – willing to discard his standards, his morals, everything he holds dear and asking only for a backalley shag in return - was nothing short of troublesome.

“Lord Shemal’s timing is indeed, immaculate,” the Ambassador complimented. “Once the news spreads, Neverwinter won’t try to be diplomatic with us anymore… and now that you’re here, I reckon it won’t take too long.”

“I still don’t know why this all of a sudden,” Aniel said.

“Ah, you see,” Torio held out her index finger upwards, “Neverwinter is _still_ the only prominent base in the Sword Coast which the Zhents haven’t got a hold on yet. It’s mainly because another organization, the Shadow Thieves is already there and is unwilling to relinquish their place.”

“How did they get so much power anyway?”

“Eight years ago, before she became one of the Nine, Firanis Hlaetlarn had to associate herself with them in order to get into one of the Districts. It’s a pretty long story but the gist of it is, she wanted to find out about the Silver Sword of Gith and the only person who could provide some info was inside Blacklake, which was under lockdown due to recent murders.”

“And so, the Shadow Thieves became important?”

“Not right away. Like I said, it’s a pretty long story. But after some adventuring, Firanis found herself with a bit of land, a place in the Nobility and, even after some time, a _Nine_. That’s when the Shadow Thieves began cashing in favors.” Torio leaned back on the chair, crossing her legs. “I was in her Keep at the time and I must say… I still don’t know how she handed them so well but she _did_ give them enough power to rise and control Neverwinter’s shadow.

“We’ve been trying to deepen our involvement with Neverwinter but so far… Nothing. Which is why Lord Shemal came today; that and…” Torio’s voice trailed away and she frowned, “and the fact your Pain claiming she’d seen someone on her visions and that Shemal needed to act if his plan was to work.”

Aniel bit down the left corner of her lips. “Loviatar favors Shemal; it wouldn’t baffle me if she sent one of her highest clerics a vision which would help him.”

“Perhaps. But I am almost sure that Lord Shemal will end up waging war against Neverwinter sooner or later.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Nasher would never surrender his city to another; I know him and I’m certain he’s stupid enough to risk full hostility if Shemal pushes him further… Especially today.”

Aniel breathed in, skeptical. “What’s so special about today?”

“It’s exactly eight years since the death of the King of Shadows. They’ll all be thinking about what they defeated and it will heighten their confidence and trust… even though the person who saved them is no longer among their ranks. The silly girl let herself get buried under tons of rubble that day.”

“The Firanis woman?”

“Exactly. No one found her body or the ones of her companions – but do you really think she _survived_ it?”

Aniel thought about it for a second before replying, “I’ve seen weirder stuff. And from your tone, Torio Claven, I think you’re almost sorry she _might_ have died.”

The Ambassador’s face was taken aback for a moment. Aniel smiled; it took a liar to know another and, quite frankly, she’d always felt something stir in her whenever Torio mentioned Neverwinter – but especially when she mentioned Firanis.

“She’s the only reason I’m still alive today,” confessed Torio.

 _Ah, so that’s it…_ Aniel told herself. _It’s a good enough reason; however, I still think she’s lying about something… Or maybe I’m just too tired and am overanalyzing everything. Yes, that’s probably it._

Aniel decided it was best to drop the subject and move on. “So, what’s our next move?”

She could’ve waged the Ambassador was relieved. “Wait for Lord Shemal. Only what he decided to do there will determine our next move. If he and Lord Nasher did not decide to war…” She looked Aniel from head to toe. “Lord Shemal is most likely to send you up there to finish the family business you started... it’d certainly earn us a better spot in the Court.”

Aniel nodded; it didn’t feel weird or uncomfortable anymore to have to be on someone’s bed in order to achieve something – in fact, it hadn’t for quite a while, so as long as the man was easy on the eyes. She didn’t know what had changed to make things so easy but she wasn’t very keen to find out; everything ran so much more smoothly this way, she didn’t want to change that. “Else?” she asked.

“Else, you’ll also most likely to wind up there and, along with Bishop and Rekat, do all the sneaky sabotage thing you’re all so good at doing,” Torio answered.

In an instant flash, there was the memory of Rekat looking at her with widened eyes, breathing heavily and shallowly… _afraid_ , so afraid of her that he’d left her… the wounding sadness clinging on to her heart, the sudden weight of her needing flesh, they all came back, stomping and stabbing their way across her mind…

Aniel pushed everything away, wiped her conscience clean of everything. She wasn’t going that way again. She didn’t know nor care why it was so important that she kept her _physical_ distance from Rekat and, just like the something which had made her change, she wasn’t going to even try to find out what it was. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t and _this_ was the only promise she intended on keeping.

She bid the Ambassador farewell and climbed all the way up to her room. Personally, she hated the Hosttowers. They were neither aesthetically pleasing nor physically comfortable; no one liked to climb all those steps everyday and Aniel had a feeling Vasjra was trying to punish her legs by assigning her the tallest room of the tallest tower. Quite poetic, in a way. Maybe the half-drow Cleric was actually hoping that, in case Aniel planned on escaping, she couldn’t do it from her room… or, in case she had a rescuer, he’d tire himself just by trying to get to her and wouldn’t be able to get to the actual rescuing.

Aniel snorted. As if anyone would _want_ to save her.

She stopped dead on her tracks realizing that there _was_ someone: the Paladin _might’ve_ wanted to risk it, if she managed to pull out a convincing “I’m-trying-to-redeem-myself” act. There were two things against the theory, though: he didn’t know where she was and she wasn’t actually in need of liberation. Once, she might’ve wanted it; now she just plain and simply didn’t care.

She resumed her walking, her soft footfalls echoing around her.Shit, Luskan always gave her this uneasy feeling, like it was an extension of one of the Hells. Sort of what she knew she’d feel if she ever went to Baator and had that thrilling succubus part of her take over to demand the slaughter of _everything_ in its nine layers in the heat of the Blood Wars. It made her feel on edge, ruthless and unforgiving… like the human half of her was slipping away from between her fingers.

Bah. What did she need _that_ half of hers for anyway? It’d only hindered her; made her throw importance into things which had been better off discarded.

Once at the top, she turned left towards her room, not surprised to find it as cold as an ice cube. The glass door of the balcony was open, the merciless Nightal winds sweeping into the chamber; she closed the doors, but not before noticing this night was colder than usual. Maybe it’d even snow in a day or two.

Aniel then walked to the fireplace and, using the timber beside it, lit a small fire. At least someone had remembered to leave wood for her to burn. Pivoting, she inspected the rest of the room. It was square and bigger than the one she’d had back in Yartar; beside the fireplace was a small desk; the bed was queen-size canopy, made of dark wood, with long, black silken curtains draped at each post; there were nightstands on each side of it, a dresser and a wardrobe; there was a privy with a large, circular wooden tub.

She searched the drawers, finding them full. Good. Someone had already unpacked her things, however small in number they’d been. She really hadn’t had much time to pack and, come to think of it, nor to see the Paladin off properly. Things had just got fun between them, with him beginning to renounce his church whereas before he’d been all “This won’t happen again.” after sex. He’d always come back, regardless; and maybe because of his aura or the sheer pleasure of it, Aniel had always felt a special rush in her blood whenever they were near, causing her skin to itch. And she’d liked that itch; she’d especially liked using his body to ease it.

 _Gods_ , she was beginning to ache right now. Yup, she’d definitely changed in those two years she’d been in Yartar: acknowledging her sex drive and what she could do with it had done wonders. She felt more in control of it now than she’d ever had. Hell, maybe if she went to sleep now, she could go find the Paladin and cut Tyr off the man’s dreams.

Aniel searched the drawers for her nightshift. She found it at the bottom one, along with her undergarments; she reached for it and something very soft brushed her hand. And it was not her shift.

And she had _no idea_ how that thing had got here. She remembered deliberately _not_ packing it.

Squinting, she drew the thing out before she could realize what she was doing. It was still as soft as when she’d received it and the black had not dulled to grey, like it often did on poor quality fabric; when she dropped it on her hand, it still waded through her fingers as though it was immaterial enough to slip past it. Grasping it hard, Aniel brought it to her nose; yes, the faint fragrance of drying autumn leaves remained upon it, along with the feel of an oasis… an oasis which would quench _all_ of her thirsts.

She whirled the thing around herself and, on the back of her mind, she was dancing.

 

_The room was full of rich, sumptuous people; the air around her was smoky; the only thing illuminating her surroundings the black candles on the floor. A flick of her wrist, a thrust of her hips – and shadows moved._

_Aniel was quite aware her dancing was mesmerizing and, even though she hated to admit it, useful. She was sure_ all _eyes in the room were on her and, right now, it was what she needed; what Rekat needed. She was to sustain all the leering and the drooling of the tightly guarded ballroom until he snuck inside to steal the permits off the Lord’s room._

 _So, for him, she danced. Shadows whirled, parted and merged at her beckon. She moved with elegance and seduction, like her very own life depended on how well she pulled this off. And, in a way, she knew it wasn’t really far from the truth; if Rekat was caught… Gods, why was even_ thinking _about the prospect so painful?_

_She finished the first dance and readied for the second. Rekat probably was already inside. Half an hour more and, under the cover of her shadowdancing, he’d be back out into this ballroom and they’d leave._

_Cold fear gripped her chest when she found herself escorted – and then dragged – into the Lord’s room by four men. She was well aware she couldn’t fight_ all _of them off without giving her cover away but she didn’t really care for what awaited her in the Lord’s room. No, in all the frenzy, she was only concerned about Rekat’s safety and the fact that he couldn’t go back inside without giving away the fact he’d been somewhere he was not supposed to be._

_As luck would have it, he was still inside the Lord’s bedchamber. Alone. Once he saw her, he leapt out of the shadows, his look silently demanding an explanation._

_“He ordered me here after the first dance,” Aniel replied, looking down onto the carpeted floor._

_In an uncharacteristic loss of nerve, Rekat slapped his forehead. Hard. “I always knew you looked too damn perfect for your own good,” he hissed, his irritation showing through his tone._

_The first words that sprung to her mind were_ “The Fuck!? _” but she pursed her lips instead of voicing them._

 _“What’s done is done, anyway. I’m betting that there are guards posted outside the door now, so there’s no chance we can get out that way,” Rekat said, pacing around the room. “Shit, Aniel, just…_ shit _.”_

_Aniel narrowed her eyes, her patience hanging by a thin thread. “The guards will get away after the Lord comes. They generally don’t like anyone near when they’re screwing whores.”_

_For a moment, Rekat’s face darkened. Aniel heard footsteps and shoved him into a dark corner, where she was sure he’d stay hidden. The door opened and the Lord strode in, just as she spun round to meet his gaze._

_“You don’t look surprised,” the man said. “Did your mistress warn you that_ this _might happen?”_

 _Oh, so this was Kalyt’s doing after all. The bitch; she was_ so _going to pay dearly once she got the chance… “Yes, she did,” Aniel lied._

_“Good. I hate it when one of you is not informed. Makes you bite and frankly, I cannot afford the marks.” His gaze roamed to her body, the scant bra and split skirt leaving most of her uncovered._

_“I hope she charged more for this little service,” Aniel stated._

_“She did.”_

_With a couple of large steps, he was on her, one large hand on her midriff and then on her back while the other took hold of her chin, forcing it upwards. Automatically, the gears in Aniel’s mind began turning; she needed to kiss him but not like this; the guy had to be on his back and she on top. When his hold grew lax, she pulled away, walking backwards towards the bed, making sure her smile was inviting, impossible, despite the fact that her skin felt greasy where he’d touched her._

_Damn, she was_ so _going to get Kalyt after this._

 _She was thrown back onto the bed. Aniel had to give the guy credit for being able to do so_ and _discard her bra and skirt all in one swift movement. He kneaded her breasts, his massive figure looming above hers; Jisan be blessed, she needed to flip him over…_

_Arching her back, Aniel grabbed the Lord’s neck and twisted it only slightly, giving him no choice but to spin and hit his back onto the mattress. She straddled his waist, pulled his head towards her and, with a well-trained flip of her tongue made him swallow a bit of her own saliva._

_It didn’t take long for it to affect his heart and for the man to collapse back on the bed, lifeless._

_Breathing hard, Aniel jumped out of the bed. Rekat reappeared out of his hiding spot soon after. She spat a broken capsule onto the palm of her hand and suppressed a shudder._

_“You poisoned him!?” Rekat sounded astonished._

_“It’s a special mix of mine; it’ll be untraceable in an hour and, when they examine him, everyone will attribute his death to heart failure,” Aniel explained, picking up her skirt and bra._

_“He tore them,” Rekat stated._

_“Bastard. The skirt’s fine if I tie it but I have nothing for my torso now−”_

_Her voice died when Rekat extended her a piece of semi-transparent cloth. “It’s a veil,” he whispered. “But I think it’ll be large enough for you to tie it around your breasts twice and cover your decency.”_

_After knotting the tops of the skirt together, she snatched what Rekat was extending her, wondering why in all the layers of the Abyss Rekat was carrying a veil – and a large one at that; she could wrap it around herself one and a half times. It was made of the most exquisite fabric she’d ever touched, soft and light and, from the outside, it seemed to shimmer. She tucked one end inside, holding it in place, but then Rekat gave her a small pin, half-silver, half-gold, a moon and a sun completing each other. As she fastened the veil with it, Aniel breathed out to cool down the strange overwhelming sensation she was just discovering. “It’s beautiful.”_

_Crap. She just hadn’t said that, she hadn’t…_

_“I was going to give it to you before the dance so you could use it, but I had no time.” Rekat murmured so softly Aniel wondered how she’d made out the words; and on his cheeks… Selan be damned, was that a_ blush _?_

_Inevitably, she found out she began smiling at him. “Well, let’s just say we were fortunate then; if you had, it’d most likely be shredded by now.”_

_Rekat snorted, his demeanor changing from almost shy to thoroughly annoyed. “Are men always so fast when they’re disrobing you?”_

_“No. Just the ones I intend to poison.” She gave a shrug that meant she was dismissing further questions; and Rekat, the ever understanding person, didn’t press the subject further._

_Aniel watched as he moved to the door, sticking a mirror under it; he waved her forward, opening it. As she’d suspected, there were no guards in the hallway. Sticking to the shadows, they easily found their way out into the manor’s gardens._

_“The man was so stupidly taken by his lust for you he ended the party sooner,” Rekat commented._

_“You sound disapproving. Don’t we have what we came for?”_

_“Yes, but…” Rekat took in a long breath of exasperation. “Aniel, there’s a reason why thieves and assassins are normally so plain,” Rekat whispered._

_“Oh?”_

_“We don’t draw attention. No one notices when we leave or when we get in. And no one tends to remember our face after the deed is done._ You _, on the other hand…” he shook his head._

_“Is that why you hate me, then? Because I make your job harder?”_

_“Aniel, there are no doubt advantages to having you around; it’s just that the risks far outweigh them.”_

_That he was so bloody calculating and thought of her as more of a burden then a blessing managed to hurt her. “You_ do _despise me, then.”_

 _Suddenly, his watery green eyes were in front of her, the irises luminescent even though there were only shadows around them. “Wrong, Aniel.” His voice, usually tinged with just an edge of roughness seemed like gravel now. “It’s exactly because I_ don’t _despise you that everything is so damnably dangerous.”_

 

With all the strength she could muster, Aniel shook off the memory. The veil floated onto the floor and the sun-and-moon pin rolled free from among its folds. Without realizing, she fell backwards onto the bed as tears came unbidden down her face.

The djinni had warned her when she’d been but a child, hadn’t he? _You cannot stop the wheel of fate, child. It will always come full circle_ , was what he’d told her, among many other things.

She punched the soft mattress, berating herself. She shouldn’t – couldn’t – be so weak. Rekat was in the past and had to remain buried there. And if she ever set her eyes on him again, she’d walk away and leave him alone in the cold, like he’d left _her_ three years ago. She vowed that and that the tears she was crying now would be the very last she’d shed for _him_.

But fate had never been kind on her and, as it willed, as soon as she closed her eyes, she felt a call; and because a broken heart replies quicker than a lying mind, she answered.

 

 

He closed his eyes; on the black mist which was the landscape of his dreams, a form approached him.

“Rekat?” she asked, voice distorted by the twists and turns of the dream world, but he recognized its owner perfectly. The silhouette closed down the distance between them until it was clear, a hand’s reach away. Rekat’s eyes drank every inch of skin, got lost in every single curve…

“Aniel?”

She nodded.  “It’s a dream, Rekat,” he heard her; for a reason, she sounded… terrified, shattered even.

“It’s been a while since this happened,” Rekat noted.

Aniel chewed on her lower lip. “Our dreams haven’t met for nearly three years, that’s why. I…” she suddenly looked away, blushing. “I don’t know why it happened today, but…” She closed her eyes, lids trembling.

Rekat’s brows rose in surprise when he noticed she was biting down her tongue; it was something she only did when she felt uncertain. “But what?”

Her eyes were suddenly on him, dark and twisted. “I didn’t want to come,” Aniel whispered and moved even closer, her figure flicking in an out of sight as if it was dissipating. When she stopped in front of him, standing completely still, though, she was _solid_ again. 

“Why are you here, then?” Rekat asked, trying to control the strain in his voice, caused by her closure.

“Our dreams met. And you were calling,” she replied.

Immediately, Rekat frowned and snapped at her. “But you didn’t want to come any more than I wanted to call _you_.”

Aniel closed her eyes as a shiver ran through her body. “You did. And the part of me which takes over dreams heard it and led me here before I could stop it.”

“I didn’t ask for _you_.”

“You _did_ ,” Aniel berated. “If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

They both fell silent; after some long minutes, Rekat asked, “What’s happened to you?”

Aniel jerked her head back in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You’re different; you didn’t use to be like this in dreams,” he pointed out. “Now, it’s as if you know how to control them.”

Her breasts rose as she took a breath. “I’ve learned how.”

Rekat’s lips were nothing but a thin line, pursed tightly. “And since when do you need to use your dreams to make anyone fall for you, Aniel?”

She shrugged dismissively. “I spent three years trying to do just that. Because of you…” her voice trailed away for moments before regaining its strength. “I didn’t want to see you again. Not after that day.”

“You were going to kill me,” he hissed.

“I didn’t mean to!” Aniel wailed and that cool, blithe mask dropped, her face distorted as newfound lines of sorrow etched into it. “It had never happened before and when I noticed… When I noticed, I stopped, Rekat! But you left anyway!”

Inwardly, he snorted. Had he not been with for five years, he’d have believed her reaction not to be faked; and he couldn’t trust her dream vision either – for all he knew, she was in control and dreams were unable to do what they were supposed to: show one’s true feelings.

“As if I am the kind of man capable of enticing that much desire in you,” Rekat put all his frustration, all his doubts into that sentence, narrowing his eyes as he spoke it.

In reply, Aniel laughed. Ugly and bitter, she cackled like a mad hyena and it was not pleasant to behold. When it ceased, her lips were angrily pursed and her stare threw daggers at him. “Rich, Rekat, _really_ rich.” She gnashed her teeth for a moment, poison dripping off her words. “You think I was feigning it.”

“I don’t know. You spent an awfully long time talking to Shemal the day before; who’s to say he didn’t order you to kill me? I’ve seen you do that, Aniel,” he pressed his lips into a thin line, remembering how much it’d hurt to see. “Killing with a kiss.”

She stepped even closer, fury dictating her steps. “You’ve seen me _not to_. Or don’t you remember Yartar? After the raving girl sent you shivering into _my_ arms?”

His whole being came to a halt. He remembered it far too well.

The girl, telling of all the things he’d done; of all things he’d wanted; of all he’d lost. From the bloodbath his betrayal of the Shadow Thieves had wrought to the madness of never feeling cold or warmth and to the one person who’d broken through it. Aniel. In the end, it always came back to Aniel. Aniel and her fevered, haunting kisses – the first of which had been in the aftermath of that event.

 Aniel’s eyes were big and watery from under the long lashes. “You caught me by surprise when you kissed me back like _that_ , Rekat. I couldn’t control myself anymore.”

His expression turned patronizing. “I’ve seen you being kissed back harder than that, Aniel. Don’t try to fool me.”

“I’m not,” the pitch of her voice climbed to a near shriek and she took a hand to her throat, massaging it to steady her tone. She quickly blinked a couple of times; Rekat couldn’t help noticing the tip of her nose was reddening. It was almost as if… she was on the verge of crying.

He remembered the last time he’d seen Aniel in flesh and blood, his whole body involuntarily shuddering as though he was feeling her soft skin rubbing against his, her velvety lips scraping his own… and his heart pounding so heavily that it almost jutted out of his chest, his emotions being drained away as her hands kneaded his skin… Then that blazing inferno at the pit of his stomach, rising upwards through his throat, burning everything in its wake: his soul, leaving his body at the command of her tongue.

Rekat still didn’t know what had hurt more than night: Aniel nearly killing him or his treacherous body not minding it at all so as long as her kiss never ceased.

“Why did you call for me?” she insisted; when his mouth opened, he knew she thought he was giving her a reply… But he didn’t. Instead, he just circled her waist with one arm and her upper back with the other. Gods, how he _ached_ to taste her again, even if it was just in a passing dream…

Her hands traveled his sides to end up resting on his chest, allowing her to pull herself away enough to look up to him but not so much as to break their embrace. Their gazes locked – sharp, needing, _wanting_ – and soon her lips were closing down on his, velvety soft and, just like that one kiss in Yartar, agonizingly slow. It also seemed to beg for more.

More. Always more.

Why did she have such a hold on him?

The hand on her upper back rose higher to clutch her scalp. She was his, only _his_ and no one else’s. The possessive urges had him bite her lower lip until he felt her sweet, intoxicating blood on the tip of his tongue.

Aniel made a hissing sound in the back of her throat, arching her back, causing Rekat to be reminded of how painfully his erection was straining against his pants, demanding to be freed.

Tearing his lips from Aniel’s, he moved to her throat, only nibbling at it at first.

“Rekat,” his name was a breathy whisper coming from Aniel’s lips.

She moaned when he gave her neck the first harsh bite, breaking her skin. She clutched at him, one arm snaking around his head and the other on his shoulder, as she melted, hot and sensuous against him.

A strange pounding on the back of his head began asking for attention but Rekat shook it off; he wanted nothing but Aniel now, even if it was just a dream she controlled; he did not even care that if his death here would reverberate on real life. There was just Aniel and she was _his_.

When her shirt was gone and he suckled her nipples, Rekat was pretty sure she moaned an “I hate you.”

He gave a throaty laughter before he continued to lick the aching peaks. She was perfect, so plain perfect…

The pounding grew stronger, like an insistent migraine. He looked up at Aniel, one eyebrow raised. Her skin was flushed and her breath was ragged; the expression of hazy pleasure she’d worn was exchanged for indignation now that he’d stopped.

“Why do you do this to me?” she asked, visibly torn. “Won’t you ever stay with me unless ordered?”

He would. Oh how he _would_.

But Rekat didn’t get to tell her that and the many other things he’d always wanted to because the pounding grew infernal.

Aniel vanished.

Reality was slammed back into Rekat when he woke up at the sound of someone knocking on his door. Cursing, he lurched out of the bed and pulled on his trousers – since when had he removed them anyway? - just before he opened the door. Yarija’s pale, sickly sight had never been more welcome to him; he thanked every single deity that her usual inopportune appearances had just, for once, saved him from one of those scalding dreams that he _knew_ would make him think about Aniel. And that was something he’d rather not have distracting his mind. Again.

“What is it?” he asked, trying to sound angry; anything else would have been unnatural.

“Shemal wants you and the chess piece moving your asses to Luskan. Now.”

Rekat groaned. “What about the Shadow Thieves?”

“Change of plans. Shemal thinks that, with the one we’re taking back, they won’t be a threat.”

“And _who_ are we taking back?”

“Some woman who just returned from the Upper Planes; you might’ve heard from her as the eternal missing member of the Nine,” Yarija snorted. “Turns out they were all hoping for her to return someday that, in eight years, they never thought about replacing her.”

He smirked. “You sound resentful, little Yari.”

“Do _not_ call me that,” she hissed, sticking out a finger at him.

“Why not? I was saddled with you when you were just a brat at the age of _seven_. And you stuck with me for the seemingly never ending span of four years. After putting up with all your little annoying childhood antics for so long, I believe I have every right to call you whatever I want.”

Yarija paused; then, after look around she bit her lip and whispered, “Can we talk, then?”

 _Oh Mask…_ Rekat knew what this tone meant. He knew what that look meant. He wanted to avoid it but _damn it_ , in the rare times they talked like this the girl had the unnerving habit of making herself look like the little confused child he’d met around thirteen years ago instead of the embittered young woman she’d become.

It unnerved him even more that he couldn’t stand her to look like a stranded puppy. Fist, Yarija, then, Aniel; so much for his prideful detachment. 

Sighing, he gave up. “Well then, little Yari, tell me what troubles you so.”

Her unnaturally big yellow eyes were on him for a long while. “Will whatever I tell you now ever leave the space between us?”

“It won’t.”

She looked around them again; once satisfied, Yarija let her cloak fall off her shoulders, spinning round so he could see her back. Rekat found his breathing refused to proceed as normal when the tattoos on her back _moved_.

“Shit,” was the eloquent remark he managed.

“Feels like it, too,” said Yarija.

“For how long has _this_ been going?”

“All my life, really. But it’s been worse these past eight years.”

“Gods, Yarija. _That’s_ what Shemal’s done to you? Why?”

He noticed she’d been stifling a shriek before replying. “You think I know? All he said was that I’d been created for the sole purpose of enduring this!”

“How often−”

“Every day now.”

“Mask…” Rekat let his voice trail away. “No wonder why you’ve been so sick. Yarija, if you’re losing blood like this every day−”

“It means someday I’ll finally die,” she shot at him, her cloak flying upwards as she pivoted to face him again. “And really, Rekat, shouldn’t I be glad? Since I’m too much of a coward to end my own life, then maybe Shemal’s little curse will take care of it!”

“Yarija…”

“It’s just… Everyone is wanted somewhere, Rekat. Why aren’t I?”

The wavering of her voice staggered him. He studied her face, the pouting black lips and the dark smudges under her yellow eyes and remembered how exquisitely beautiful she’d been as a child; how her dark pink lips would curve up with a smile when he told her of the places he’d seen and how her mellow amber eyes would shine when she managed to hit a target with a dart.

Then Shemal happened. Rekat had always known the man had carved those horrible drawings on Yarija when she was very small – his guess had been at three, maybe even two years old – but after she turned eleven, Shemal had done something else. He didn’t know why he was so suddenly sent to Baldur’s Gate after leaving the girl in Shemal’s Stronghold; what he _did_ know was that, the next time he saw her, two years later, she was not the little Yari he knew.

Aniel had already been with him back then and, as she had so sharply stated when Yarija had recoiled from him, the girl had been raped. He hadn’t known how to act around her after that. And when he’d sent Aniel to Shemal, he had been so afraid that he’d do the same to the half-succubus, he had warned her, had made sure she wasn’t as unaware as Yarija had been.

And he’d still lost her.

Gods, he had forgotten how much it’d hurt. Now that dream was bringing everything back - only worse.

“What makes you say so?” he asked.

“Are _you_ serious, Rekat? Look at me and tell me if there ever was someone worried about me!”

“Yarija,” he ran his fingers through his hair, “there’s bound to be someone for you.”

“And who told you that?”

Rekat was sure he flushed a little. “Ah… someone to whom I owe a great deal.”

“Did that person also warn you to watch out for any half-succubi who might cross your path?” By her raised eyebrow, Rekat sensed she was being cynical. He frowned and Yarija added, “Come on, Rekat. It’s hard to miss you’ve been dreaming about her again.”

Warily, he looked down. _Right_ … he should’ve sensed the bulge in his pants earlier. “As someone who took care of you as a child, I’m going to ask: “your point?” instead of beating it out of you.”

She sounded awfully disgusted by his ignorance, “Can’t you see? You and Aniel _want_ each other no matter how hard you both try to deny it; the woman who’s arrived today was expected by pretty much the entire Neverwinter. Shemal, too, claims she’s the only thing he wants from here and _he_ already has Ethlinn. Vasjra is the epitome of cruelty and all of Loviatar’s acolytes want it to be _her_ teaching them. Kalyt’s soldiers would be happy to lay their lives for her in battle and their bodies beside her in bed; Brian’s got his little nest of animals; Prarg’s tribe seeks his advice even though he’s a cold-blooded killer. One way or another, everyone’s wanted somewhere.” She stopped to breathe; her eyes closed and Rekat could’ve sword they did so to fight back tears. “ _I_ have got no one, Rekat. No one really needs _me_. I’m just the ghost girl with the eerie tattoos who just has to be tolerated because Shemal will kill anyone who harms her.”

For a moment, Rekat thought he glimpsed the seven-year-old-girl laid in his care. “Yarija… I’m sure someone somewhere is feeling the same thing right now.”

She sniffed. “Why?”

“Because the one person that man or woman wants is right here, in front of me.” Rekat tried to make the smile he was giving her to be a reassuring one; he wasn’t quite sure he managed it because _frankly_ , he hadn’t been sought out for comfort in a long while.

“I thought you’d be honest with me, Rekat.”

“You were right.”

Yarija shook her head. “Seriously, if that person ever met me, they would never find their missing half. The first look they gave me would send them reeling backwards.”

“Why?”

Her voice shook although her body soot perfectly still. “I _know_ what I look like, okay? I’m beyond being ugly and sincerely, the inside isn’t any better. I’m selfish and cruel and cynical and only the Gods know what else!”

“Well then,” Rekat was still smiling as reassuringly as he could, “you know all your faults; how about beginning to change them?”

“We can’t change who we are−”

“I knew you before Shemal really got his hands into you, little Yari and you were not like this. If it’s true that we cannot change who we are, then I suggest you begin shedding that horrid shell you’ve placed around yourself and simply _be_ who you are meant to be.”

“For Tiamat’s breath, Rekat! Even if I did, even if someone saw past the barrier you claim I’ve erected, Shemal would kill them for daring it! I’m damned to be alone for the rest of my life and I don’t understand why it terrifies me so!”

“Yarija,” Rekat pinched the bridge of his nose while tilting his head back; _Gods_ , this was a massive headache forming. “As someone who perfectly knows what you’re against when you rouse up Shemal, I’d advise you to give up and live with the misery for the rest of your days. However, as someone who has every right to call you little Yari, I’ll just tell you to go along for now because truly, you’re bound to have a way out of this life sooner or later so _please_ , don’t just hope to die.”

She pursed her lips and nodded.

“Are we done, little Yari?”

She straightened her back and stiffened her tone to formality, “You’re to leave to Luskan now and be there before we arrive by tomorrow afternoon. Go wake up the ranger.”

With that, she trotted down the corridor; Rekat watched her, inwardly frowning. He’d wished for very few things in his life and he remembered one of them had been to have Yarija spared of the darkness this branch of the Zhentarim had fallen under; she, unlike him or Aniel or anyone else, had not signed on for this; she’d simply been born and chained into it.

 _Yarija, Forever Chained_ was what Shemal had called her when she was returned to him. Eight years after, she was still that.

“Poor little Yari…” He muttered under his breath before looking down to see what the thrice-damned dream with Aniel had wrought. Whether or not it’d been a real dream link – truth be told, he’d one-sided dreamed of Aniel often enough to doubt she’d been on the other side as well – the effects were real.

Rekat stepped back and closed his bedroom door, shaking his head and sighing in defeat.

He’d better get rid of _that_ before he woke Bishop up.

 

 

_A chilling wind slashed at her face; snow bit into her feet. All at once, Firanis recognized the place she was in: Fury’s Heart._

_A chilling, cruel numbness began to spread on her naked limbs; she saw bangs of copper hair flowing in front of her eyes to give a taste to the otherwise bland landscape, their color as out of place as a fish on the earth._

_“The circle is closing, my blessed.” Auril’s frosty voice whispered against her ear. Firanis tried to turn but her body appeared to be absent; it hurt and she could see it but control was an entire different matter._

_Her jaw was painfully clenched, teeth forcefully pressed together. She felt Auril trail a finger across her naked shoulders as she skirted her immobile figure._

_Auril was so white her skin mingled flawlessly with the snow; her white-blue hair whipped around in the air much like the sky above which announced a merciless storm; her eyes were two cubes of ice, cold and bitter._

_She had naturally cruel features, yes. But nothing in Auril scared Firanis more than the smile the Goddess was wearing now._

_“You’ve had a reminder for so many years… I’ve always wondered how you’d fare against the real thing,” Auril’s voice rubbed against her soul like barbed wire, chiming it open to relish in the wounds it caused. Her hand clenched around Firanis’s skin and it was_ cold _; colder than the wind; colder than the snow; and worse, so much worse than her voice, “The time is coming, my cursed. And I swear that for what you’ve denied me, I shall drink every single drop of the torment you’re going to get.”_

_Like five sharp knives, her fingers cut into her cheek and went down, down and down until they reached her jaw. Blood oozed from the wounds into her lips, melting the ice and sneaking in, the salty, metallic taste strong in her now freed mouth…_

Firanis woke up at the sound of her own screams and a rapping on her bedroom door, her stomach still knotted and her throat strangely dry. Nervousness, she knew but there was no way she could back out now, just as there’d be no way she could have avoided this no matter how much the dream had scared her.

Auril had always had that nasty habit to visit her when tension was threatening to tear her in two. But no matter; Firanis had always managed to contradict the Ice Maiden’s bleak, anguishing forewarnings. She’d do so again if needed.

She rolled out of the bed where Ilwyn was still sound asleep, crossed the room and opened the door; the corridor was strangely dark and there was scarcely a light coming through the windows.

 _As though as the sun itself is afraid to show,_ she thought.

“Good morning,” said a quiet voice from beyond the threshold. “Lord Shemal has sent me to aid you, Firanis Hlaetlarn. I am Yarija Thress.”

Firanis turned, her breath caught on the back of her throat; the woman in front of her – the one who’d been writhing on the floor yesterday… she could’ve been a statue carved to life-like perfection, for even the minute details of the veins could be seen! Her eyes were like amber stones and her hair, uneven pale cooper threads; drawings of tattoos covered portions of her body but save for that, she was all untainted marble whiteness. Stuttering a greeting, the aasimar bent down her head; the other woman snorted and told her, in a snarl, that she could skip the pleasantries.

When a hand caught her wrist and pulled her, Firanis couldn’t help but notice that she she’d thought to be tattoos were, after all, cuts on the skin covered with black ink.

Yarija laughed sourly. “Noticed it? Trust me; it’s the least of all the things you’ll see if you stay in Luskan for long.”

“I’m sorry,” Firanis stuttered on the latter word, embarrassed she’d been caught staring – gawping, really - just in the way Daeghun had advised her against. Much worse than that however, was that she didn’t notice herself blurting, “You’re just so… exquisite.”

The woman endeared her with a smile that seemed to be the ugliest thing Firanis had ever seen; yet upon a closer inspection, she realized that the real issue wasn’t there – it was in the fact that something like a smile – and a dimpled one at that - didn’t match the darkness in the woman’s face.

“Why are you complimenting me, Firanis Hlaetlarn?” Yarija hissed through her bared teeth. “I’m your enemy, for all you know.”

Well, that had always been a weak spot of hers, Firanis conceded. Fall for thy enemy. “First and foremost, you’re a person,” the aasimar argued, “then, you’re from the Zhents. I cannot condemn you before I get to know you.”

Her sentence seemed to sincerely amuse Yarija; she chuckled lowly, only from the back of her throat. “You’d give me a chance even though you _know_ I’m on the bad side? Talona’s poison!” she tapped her temples with a finger, “Are you all right in here?”

 _This is going to be difficult_ , Firanis sighed and smiled as best she could. “No. I’ve just been living on something for so long, I cannot drop the habit now.”

“Trying to save your enemies?”

“Sometimes; but mostly I just like to see how people act when given a second chance,” Firanis said.

A fine line appeared between Yarija’s brows, “And what have those people done?”

Firanis shrugged, “Some see what they really are; others don’t. I know now you can’t really change what someone is, you can only hope they can see past the bitterness of life’s trials and become what they really are meant to be.”

“That’s a whole load of pretentious bullshit, you know that?” Still, despite her choice of words, Firanis sensed Yarija was intrigued rather than rejecting. “I suppose the child spawns from someone who _didn’t_ see his true self?”

It took Firanis everything she had not to lose control over her features again. Behind Yarija’s pale yellow eyes she now reckoned that there was a gleam of an uncanny, resilient intelligence which had gone ignored for a long while. “How did you know?” she inquired.

“Big flaw in your theory?” the ghost-like woman asked back in defiance.

Setting aside the shock and mentally noting this unnatural knack in the other woman, Firanis shook her head. “The very core of it; it was then I knew you can’t ever wish to change someone. Only a person can change herself and you’re not _them_.” She leaned against the side of the door, the cold vividness of the dream still too present. Yet there was something about Yarija… her heart told her the woman was in pain, something so great it stemmed from the very bottom of her soul. It told her the woman was just acting like this because truly she was afraid, shaking with neglect and resentful of abandonment.

And it also told her that deeper still was someone who _wanted_ a chance to change but lacked the will to trigger it alone.

Something began stirring in the pit of her stomach, reaching out to Yarija. It brushed softly against what had to be the other woman’s unconscious thoughts. Firanis heard the rattle of chains, the burning anger and the unbidden envy for those who had their own lives.

She heard her too-softened voice leave her lips but she didn’t recall sending the order, “I wasn’t counting on someone leaving after taking a glimpse of his truer self beyond all that self-loathing, imposed doom and forced isolation.”

For a while, Yarija just looked at her with eyes so wide Firanis could see the whites around the yellow orbs; then, dismissingly, she shrugged. “Let’s get you packed.”

“I… err… sort of already am,” Firanis said just as Yarija was beginning to open a supposedly empty trunk only to find it full. “I returned from the Upper Planes yesterday; I’ve only removed Ilwyn’s things and stuffed everything I had in there.” The aasimar explained upon Yarija’s questioning look of raised brows. After hearing her reply, they dropped in a mix of confusion and shame.

“I… don’t remember much,” Yarija whispered, “Everything but you, Shemal and your daughter was a blur and my hearing wasn’t any better.” Then she stopped, her figure straightening. “But why am I telling you this?”

“For the same reason I told you all those things moments ago,” replied Firanis.

Yarija’s motions were all fluid muscle and sinew when she walked up to and sat on the bed, beside Ilwyn’s sleeping figure. “You stir the darkness within me; so does your daughter,” she nodded towards Ilwyn, brushing a stray lock of cashew hair from the girl’s forehead; Ilwyn shifted in her sleep and smiled. “She looks nothing like you.” Yarija pointed out, still in a murmur.

“I know.”

“And her father left you.”

She kept her tone flat. “He did.”

“Yet I don’t feel regret pouring out from you.”

“That’s because it’s not.”

 For a second, Yarija’s face seemed to shift so that the smile which tugged at the corners of her lips _did_ belong there. In Firanis’s opinion, it was replaced by a thoughtful frown too soon. “She reminds me of someone but I can’t quite put my finger on _whom_ exactly…”

Firanis said nothing. It _was_ theoretically possible – although highly improbable – that Yarija had met Bishop, assuming he was still alive and well; or not. She could’ve met him while he drunk himself to death in a Tavern far, far away from here; certainly _not_ in Luskan where Sir Nevalle had said she’d spent most of the last eight years at. Of all places in Toril, the least likely of encountering Bishop next to Neverwinter where he’d be tried as a traitor would definitely be Luskan.

Was it wrong for her to believe she was _not_ going there just to make sure she’d _not_ meet Bishop again?

Firanis berated herself for even be _contemplating_ the idea. It had been _eight_ _years_. She was over him. End of story.

“She soothes me,” Yarija admitted out of the blue, still bent over Ilwyn, her fingers combing through the hair fanned across the pillows, “I don’t understand but she does… at least in some measure.”

“I’m glad.” Firanis was sincere in her reply; what she’d felt stirring in Yarija… the poor woman deserved to be comforted.

Ilwyn mumbled something before turning to the other side, grasping Yarija’s small hands in her even smaller ones. Clueless, the woman turned to Firanis.

“What did she tell you?” asked the aasimar.

“ _Believe_ ,” Yarija quoted.

Firanis couldn’t help the small smile on her lips when she neared the bed to gently brush her fingers across Ilwyn’s forehead. “Ilwyn?” she called.

“I’m warm, mom…” the girl said in a tiny voice without opening her eyes. “Just five minutes more…”

“Mom has to go see some people and wants you to come with her,” Firanis whispered, kissing her child’s brow. “ _And_ you’re holding someone captive.”

“I know; we’re sharing her heat.”

Firanis apologetically looked at Yarija who now seemed quite panicked. “She’s in charge of mommy. She’ll come.” Then, lowering her voice even further, she asked Yarija, “Won’t you?”

The other woman just nodded.

Firanis cocked her brows. “Is something wrong?”

“A foot-sized spider has just finished crawling up my arm into my shoulder,” Yarija gave a little screech, “and it’s nesting in the nape of my neck!”

“Oh, allow me.” Firanis lifted the uneven pale orange hair to expose the back of Yarija’s neck; _harrumphing_ , she called out again, “Ilwyn, your spider is frightening off our guests.”

Immediately, Ilwyn’s lids shot open and she rose to a sitting position, twisting her body to be able to see the place to which Firanis was pointing to. She held out a hand and the spider latched on to it, “Bad Araga,” Ilwyn scolded.

“I thought you’d left that thing in Arborea?” Firanis inquired.

Ilwyn’s mouth fell open and her forehead wrinkled in offense. “Mom! He was given to me by Lady Lliira! And he’s my friend! I could never leave him alone! He’s still small…” at this length, she’d raised the spider to eye-level and had begun petting him while speaking in an oddly squeamish voice, “aren’t you?”

Yarija’s chest heaved. “Your daughter−”

“Oh, hi. I’m Ilwyn.” The girl gave Yarija what was, when Firanis was concerned, her best smile; then she turned to her mother and said, “Araga likes her.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“He didn’t like that man yesterday; he hid in my pocket; stayed hidden until today. I was scared, mom but,” her eyes, light golden-brown in the morning, flicked back to Yarija, “I’m not anymore. He likes her.”

“I’m beginning to think that spider likes everyone but me,” Firanis muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes.

The girl frowned at her mother before turning to Yarija, a big smile dimpling her cheeks. “Araga feels edgy around mom; you wouldn’t say so, but mom? She’s _totally_ a wolf person.”

“She is?” Yarija asked, appearing absorbed in Ilwyn’s words. “How do you know?”

“Her soul, mostly,” Ilwyn shrugged, settling Araga on her lap. “I can read souls, see. Well, I think everyone can they just choose not to,” Ilwyn closed her eyes and tilted her chin up in a display of childish pride, “it’s easy once you try but sometimes you don’t understand what the souls are trying to say because you’ve never felt the way they do. Most of mom’s feelings I don’t get but those I do, they say she’s of the kind that listens and plans before acting and, like a pack leader, she’s always looking out for others.”

“What happens if she meets another pack leader?”

“Ah; they’d most likely be at odds with each other until one submitted. It’s like that.”

Yarija’s jaw slackened slightly. “You know a lot for someone who’s what? Ten?”

“Seven,” Ilwyn corrected, holding out her fingers. “Soon-to-be eight! See, mom? She didn’t find it too weird.”

“So she didn’t,” Firanis agreed, sparing a brief glance to Yarija; indeed, the woman didn’t seem troubled that her daughter had spoken so easily about souls. And neither, Firanis added, did she seem to _mind_ the spider after Ilwyn had relieved her of it – which was a considerable achievement since Firanis felt her body quiver at the bare sight of the thing. No, Yarija just… looked calm and the darkness which had stained her features earlier appeared to be fading. “Now will you please get up and dress, Ilwyn? We have little time.”

Just like that, Yarija’s spine became rigid. “Yes… You’re to leave around noon. I’ll accompany you to wherever you need to go before then.”

Firanis nodded, unable to stop the heavy twinge on her chest as she looked at her daughter again. Ilwyn had been so scared yesterday, crying herself to sleep in Firanis’s arms… there were still traces of those tears on her face and the dimpled grin - possibly, the only thing she physically had in common with Firanis – had left her small mouth, which was now twisting downwards.

Now that she had them both side by side… It was shockingly disconcerting that Ilwyn’s sad lips were so similar to Yarija’s own sullen expression.

Pushing that eerie thought aside – as far as she knew, she only had another sister and, from what she’d seen in Eleste’s room, she wasn’t Yarija – Firanis circled Ilwyn with her arms, drawing her close and kissing her brow before she got the girl out of the bed. 

All the while, Yarija watched, those glowing yellow eyes of her following every move as Firanis helped her daughter don a knee-length yellow dress with a high square neckline and an orange cloak to keep out the cold. And Yarija’s gaze was so querying, so confused it made Firanis wonder if Yarija had ever had someone help her dress in her childhood.

“Where are we going?” Ilwyn asked, settling Araga in the large pocket of her dress. Neeshka, the one person who Firanis thought was surprisingly skilled with a needle as she’d often had to mend clothes in her life, had sown it there after Ilwyn had broken into a tantrum once over having nowhere to keep her pet spider. Firanis had complained that she didn’t want the eight-legged miniature beast creeping in Ilwyn’s shoulder and the girl had used the subtlest means to win the argument: weeping her heart out and stomping her feet until someone took pity on her and made the spider a comfortable nest in all her dresses.

Truly, Ilwyn was a sweet-tempered child most of the time; but when the situation required it, she could decidedly put her vocal cords to a good use and let loose the temper which lurked behind her dimpled smile.

In one of the girl’s fits towards Araga, Firanis had finally given up and said that if she could keep the spider hidden while they were eating, she wouldn’t throw it out the window. And Neeshka – who, by then, had grown tired of the dinner show both Firanis and Ilwyn were giving everyday - had given Ilwyn what the girl wanted and Firanis failed to deliver: pockets. Still, regardless of the cozy new living arrangements, the spider still phased out of them and into Ilwyn’s shoulder in the middle of their meals, much to Firanis’s dismay. It was a big, dark spot in Ilwyn’s upbringing – bringing animals into the table, for Ilmater’s sake! – and a pitiful war Firanis had never won; every time she tried to get rid of the spider, it teleported out of her reach and Ilwyn grew insufferable to the point only Ammon could get her to _forgive_ Firanis for trying to kill her pet spider.

Well, excuse her for trying to raise a child proper. She loved the girl more than she did her own life but please… Spiders crawling into the table!?

So, in order to prevent another mood swing, Firanis ignored the little bulge in Ilwyn’s pocket and replied, “The Sunken Flagon,” while mentally praying the little beast wouldn’t decide to come out and play in the middle of her uncle’s establishment.

 _Imagine how many people would try to kill it then. Oh, it’d_ absolutely _drive Ilwyn mad._

The streets of Neverwinter were slowly filling with people when they came out of the Castle, Yarija closely following suit without uttering a word. Blacklake District still had its polished refinement; the vendors, however, were not the same Firanis remembered. Neither were the ones in the Docks, at least those who made their living outside.

The Sunken Flagon though, was still a dimly lit place, even in the daylight. In the span of eight years, it had hardly changed; the furniture was still arranged in the same way and, despite the early hours, a strong fire already cackled in the fireplace.

 _It’s because it is winter, is it not?_ Firanis scanned her surroundings, feeling the eyes of the early-rising patrons on her. _It’s always been so hard to tell seasons from each other only by temperature... But the fire is lit in the morning, the sky was grey and the calendars marked the twelfth month so it_ must _be winter._

Nightal of the one thousand, three hundred eighty ninth year… The same month of the final battle against the King of Shadows and exactly eight years and one day after the event… _Funny_. _If you forget the latter fact, it could as well have been yesterday; like I’ve never left._  

“Come, Ilwyn, Yarija,” she called, taking the hand of the first and nodding to the other before she walked towards the bar.

Perhaps the only thing which had truly changed about the Sunken Flagon was that the barman was now a tall, buxom woman with the biggest morning grin.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” She greeted, intently inspecting each and every one of the three newcomers. “How can I help you?”

Firanis, still feeling strangely ominous from the dream, smiled as best as she could. “I’m looking for Duncan.”

The barkeeper raised an eyebrow at the aasimar; if her gaze had been intent before, now it was dissecting as it went down to the soles of Firanis’s feet to the very top of her head. Her lips thinned slightly when she got to Ilwyn, slightly clinging on to Firanis’s waist. “Are you? Who then, may I announce?” then, under her breath, she added something which sounded like _“That conniving, traitorous little son of a bitch…”_

“Ah,” Firanis caught Yarija’s expression, one in which a nostril quivered slightly as it wrinkled and flattened several times; by the Gods, she shouldn’t feel so mortified but she _had_ told Yarija Ilwyn looked like her father and the barkeep’s suspicious reaction was certainly helping the other woman leap into conclusions. “I, um… am his niece? I know we don’t look much alike but—”

The barkeep’s mouth rounded. “Oh.” She blushed, taking her hands to cover her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Madam. Please!” She nearly ran from behind the counter to grab Firanis’s free hand and lead them to a table, the one by the fire, “Wait here. Do you… want something to drink while I go get him?”

“No.” Firanis bowed her head. “We’re fine. Thank you.”

“I’ll, err, go get him right away!” In a trail of flowing skirts and, Firanis sniffed, lavender perfume, the barkeep scurried off to the backrooms.

She heard chair legs being dragged across the floor as Yarija unceremoniously dumped herself in one of them, saying nothing; Ilwyn moved to stand in front of the fire, rubbing her hands together.

Turning, Firanis found the back of the chair with her fingers, the polished wood smooth on her fingers. And even though there was a fire burning scarcely a couple of feet away from her, she felt cold; colder than before despite the fire burning scarcely a couple of feet away from her.  

_She got inside the main room of the Sunken Flagon; it was almost empty now – the few customers left were either slumping over tables or lying on the floor – and her uncle was bent over what looked like a pot, possibly throwing up his own intestines. And then, there was Bishop, casually in the shadows of the fire, drinking ale. Firanis stepped towards him, stopping a few inches from his table. He looked up, taking a sip from his drink. She didn’t move; she just stood there, staring at him with eyes she knew were in turmoil, breathing profoundly. Confusion thickened her vocal cords, making it hard to swallow; what if anyone saw her?_

_“My beloved leader, if you’re going to stare all night, I suggest—”_

_He stopped talking when Firanis, torn by the difference between modicum and need, heavily sat down on his lap, taking one of his hands between both of hers; she had small hands, not calloused at all – which was not surprising, considering she didn’t use swords nor heavy weapons, and her fingers were supple and thin, albeit very, very cold. Bishop’s hands, though… they dwarfed hers, causing her to feel even tinier than before._

_What was she_ doing _here? Why did she_ want _to be here? Why was all the cold vanishing?_

_The cords in his neck shifted as he looked down at her but she didn’t dare to meet his eyes; she was utterly clueless at why she was doing this exactly so instead, Firanis nuzzled her head on the curve of his neck. He shivered, probably because of her still icy skin. “Firanis?” he called out her name. She should like how he did that but she did; it was like, in a way, she was caressing his mouth._

_“Thank you,” she whispered; as she moved her lips in her words, the sweat on his skin slid into them; the need to know what he tasted like thoroughly clouded her for a moment and she tentatively licked him, just the tip of her tongue on his neck._

_Bishop stiffened slightly. Guilt sought her heart but she didn’t let it stay; not when she felt so right here, with the accidental salty flavor still on the tip of her tongue._

_For the Gods’ sake, she was Duncan’s niece and therefore, just as he hated her uncle so much, he should almost certainly hate her as well; he should want to hurt her. But he did not… He’d even offered himself to fight for her and he’d given her his knife when she’d declined._

_Her breath came out in a rush when Bishop placed a hand on her hips and took the ale mug to his mouth with the other. She didn’t move for a while. He kept on drinking._

_“You know…” Firanis gathered all the courage which remained after the fight with Lorne to force the words out of her mouth. “It’s not as cold when it’s you.”_

_She wondered if Bishop knew his eyes were nearly bulging out of their sockets._

_Then Firanis looked up and traced his jaw, his chin, the contours of his mouth with her ghostly touch, feeling the strange sensations which took root there spread to the farthest reaches of her body and blowing the rest of the room off her thoughts. There was only Bishop now and his hand on her hip, pressing just enough for her to want more. Suddenly, all her actions had a purpose and she did not care if anyone saw her sitting on his lap anymore._

_She gently closed her eyelids and, gingerly, she pressed her lips against his bottom one; it was a touch so soft that if her eyes hadn’t been open she’d not have been sure she’d really done it._

_Her heart stopped when Bishop bit her upper lip. A delicious mixture of pain and ecstasy shocked her spine; then, a hurtful beat later, she parted her mouth to him. His tongue coiled around hers, seeking…_

Burning…

_Had she ever felt like this before? It was so strange, with her skin growing sensitive, the pores dilating and her sight dizzying…_

_Firanis shifted to sit astride him, falling further down his lap; her hipbones grinded against Bishop’s waist, her hands grasping his jaw, the stubble pricking her as she delved deeper into his mouth._

_He was everywhere; on every labored breath, on every frenzied fondling, poison running through her veins and corroding every inch of her body, both inside and out. And were she to be offered one, she wouldn’t take the antidote! Firanis didn’t want to let go of him, to stop this mind-blowing, explosive kiss. She’d been warned so often and by so many different people and she hadn’t paid heed to them._

_In a very stray thought, Firanis acknowledged she was probably addicted to suffering._

_In a very concise one, she admitted she didn’t mind the slightest so as long as the warmth Bishop brought her never left._

_Then_ he _slowed down. His thirsty tongue gave hers languid, slow strokes before he pulled away, breathing as heavily as she was. Their foreheads collided and, for a while, neither of them said anything; they both just stared at each other. Firanis had never seen Bishop’s eyes become so dark; the honey brown of his irises was just a rim to the expanded blackness of the pupils._

_She felt a tug on her hair as the hand he’d somehow twined in the locks at the base of her neck closed. Her hands fell from his face to touch his neck, nails raking through the taut planes._

_Huh… He did have some interesting marks on his cheeks as well, where her fingers had previously been scoring._

_It was so invigorating, to be able to feel his pulse under the now overly perceptive tips of her fingers, the lifeblood beating in his veins! Firanis leaned down again and Bishop craned his neck to meet her lips halfway._

_There was no tongue then; there was no consuming hunger either. There was just bittersweet desire mixed with aching sweetness; the kind of kiss which pains you because it makes you feel absolutely whole. And Firanis poured her all into it because she wanted him to feel the same way; she wanted Bishop to know he could change; she wanted him to know someone didn’t hate him as much as he hated himself._

_She was grateful she had her eyes closed at the time; otherwise she believed she would have started crying._

_Firanis nearly heard something in Bishop snap as he tore his mouth from hers and got up, easing her knees from his waist as he dragged her up with him. They both stood, in front of each other. Regret panged in her as Firanis conceded she probably shouldn’t have done what she did; she shouldn’t have sought him out. But he’d been – still was – so warm and she so cold… Auril spare her, she was starting to ice over again! After the searing heat she’d just experienced, it felt worse than ever._

_With both hands still pressed against his chest, she stared at him in the eye. Why had he broken the kiss? It confused her since he’d always been so lewd in his remarks, so plain in his leering gaze…_

_A wave of feeling throbbed along with her blood._

_Masked it was, deeply hidden it had been, frozen into the depths of his subconscious but it was there - and she saw it as easily as she saw the wood of the table and the earth on the ground._

 

Jerking back into the present, Firanis loosened her straining, white knuckles grasping the chair.

Had she… read him wrong? Perhaps he’d never truly cared about her at any level that went beyond a secured shag but… It’d seemed so real. Why would have Bishop otherwise bothered himself with hiding something not even _he_ could see without digging deeply?

Mayhap he had, Firanis thought, when he betrayed her.

Maimed, thrown aside and denied… Yes, she’d always known he’d cared but _he_ hadn’t. And when he began to see it, he left so he would not have to deal with it.

 _To walk away before incurable damage is done; that’s so like you, Bishop; you said it yourself. When you tried to hate me as you did Duncan and couldn’t, you ran to battle_ against _me, probably hoping it’d make things easier were I to be killed that day. You said it had to end… because you didn’t want to be tied down to anyone or anything. Again._

Firanis’s legs grew feeble, trembling and she sat down with a _thump_. Vaguely, in some secluded corner within herself, she detected one of Yarija’s legs touching hers but it was quickly crumbled by the remembrance of Bishop’s final words.

 _Why was that_ again _there, Bishop? Did it mean you felt you were tied down to me? I never sought that; I knew you hated it, so I never tried to. And I was happy, Bishop, happy when I thought the affection was just one-sided. But it wasn’t, was it? The only difference was that until that night, you never allowed yourself to even_ glimpse _your true feelings._

She set her elbows up on the table and linked her fingers to rest her chin on them.

_Does it make me a bad person to hope that whenever you remember me, you feel as miserable as I do?_

Inevitably, her gaze fell on Ilwyn. For all her thankfully rare hideous displays of temper, her child was, like Melynia had said, her anchor. Baby fat still made her face chubby, but the traces were there already. And even though Ilwyn would be meek and quiet and friendly, one day Firanis would never be able to keep Bishop’s memories from subsiding whenever she looked at their child.

 _Does it make me evil when I want_ you _, Bishop, to be constantly reminded of me as I am of you? Does it make me a hateful little bitch when I wish you’ve been unhappy all these years because you lacked what I have found in Ilwyn? I moved on. Have_ you _?_

 _You see, I don’t need you anymore, Bishop…_ I _don’t need_ you _._

Hastily, Firanis thrust her face into the hiding shell her hands formed and, nonchalantly rubbed her eyes, masking the wiping of a tear away in the process. She felt it then, the often-spoken darkness, squirming inside her like worms living in her stomach; she felt the kind of cold that was icy and singeing at the same time but for the first time in years, she didn’t force it down. Firanis relished it, the fuel to her anger, the door to her detachment from the physical world, the two things she needed so much right now and for the months to come if she were to survive.

So, she let the fury burn in its ice-blue flames. It was easier to be angry towards the world, she found out. That way you never blamed yourself; that way you never care on how you might’ve hurt someone.  

She heard the ironical, maniacal cackle of her mind. _Oh Bishop… Why was I even surprised you left me in the first place? You’re just like this, aren’t you, and I’ve somehow always known it. You blame me for the lapse in your perfect barrier of self-hatred. I can blame you for so much more and so rightfully…_

Then, her thoughts abruptly came to a halt. Her mouth fell ajar; all her muscles tightened.

She… couldn’t!

The ice so cold it burned her was still there but something in her kept her from casting the blame on someone else! She wanted to scream, to voice the injustice of it but she kept stuck on her seat as though she was being hammered into it. Something in her _relished_ in all the guilt; something in her found that Bishop wasn’t to blame for the fact she’d got the potions mixed up in her bag and had forgotten to take a few; something in her…

Something in her _forgave_ – _had forgiven_ long ago! Something in her still _hoped_. And a big, big part of her kept on _loving_.

The leg of Yarija’s which had been occasionally brushing against hers moved as Yarija craned her neck to look at the door. “Hey, isn’t that your miniature warrior?” 

Firanis rotated in her chair to see Khelgar standing at the doorstep; as she waved her hand at him, she briefly wondered why he was there..

“Ye think I’d let ye walk around with one of them alone?” the dwarf was incredulous upon approaching their table. “No’ a chance.”

If Yarija should’ve felt insulted by Khelgar’s remark, she didn’t show; rather, she shrugged and got up to join Ilwyn by the fire.

Firanis bent down and whispered to the dwarf, “She’s all wrong, Khelgar.”

“Noticed that just now, have ye?”

“Sarcasm in the morning? Are you hung over?”

“Yes – tae both. Are ye for real, Firanis? Of _course_ there’s something wrong with that lass!” Wisps of saliva flew from Khelgar’s mouth, the visible aspect of his anger. “Look at her! Her skin’s like the mugs of ale your uncle _does_ clean! And those eyes…” He shook his head. “Ye canna go to Luskan, Firanis.”

The aasimar bowed down her head and half-lidded her eyes; her voice was throaty. “Khelgar, I have to.”

“Ye doona!”

“And what, Neverwinter will go to war? You heard the situation the city’s in yesterday! The Zhents will conquer her!” Firanis sharply hissed, trying not to jump out of her chair. “You’re hung over _and_ you didn’t sleep!”

“Firanis−”

“Khelgar, _don’t_.” She held out a finger to silence him. “If this is what I can do to help, then it’s what I’ll do.”

The dwarf sighed, resignation written on the wrinkles of his face. “Why ye?”

“You heard Shemal. He was quite clear when he said “ _Then let me take one member of the Nine to see us operating in Luskan. Let me take Firanis.”_ ”

“But why _ye_ specifically? You’d just returned!”

“Khelgar−” Firanis bit down into her lower lip, one of her hands nervously squeezing the other, “I think he’s my brother.”

 _“What!?_ ”

“Esmerelle told me, three years ago. Remember, when she took me outside? She couldn’t have told you because you were not her daughter – but she _did_ tell me. I have at least one half-brother and a half-sister; and, supposedly, there’s also another one. Our father had four children with different mothers in order to get rid of what he’s given us.” She explained. “I happened to be the last and, apparently, because something didn’t go as he planned, I’m not like the others. Yet.”

“And ye think Shemal is one of yer siblings?” the dwarf asked, confused.

“I’m almost sure; he… there’s something about him, Khelgar - something that calls out to me. And that _something_ is in Yarija too but slightly different.” Worry strung the vocal cords in her throat. “I’m not certain but I think I’ll find answers in Luskan. In Shemal.”

In Khelgar’s brown eyes, there was a twinkle Firanis couldn’t quite place. “Lass… doona blame us for worrying,” his gaze meaningfully flicked to Ilwyn and his brogue thickened. “We kno’ ye feel guilty about almost everything, even things which are no’ yer fault – ye always have been like that. Why canna ye just let go?”

And, unexpectedly, Firanis found the answer to a question she’d been asking herself for so many years. The ice-cold anger faded to a dying coal. Her mouth fell ajar and her sight was, for a moment, blurry; her mouth fell ajar and her sight was, for a moment, blurry; this was _why_ she couldn’t hate Bishop, _why_ she’d forgiven him. It was so obvious now, how couldn’t she have noticed it before?

“Firanis?” the dwarf called her.

“Oh, Khelgar…” she looked at him, gratification welling up within her and at his nudging towards this one answer. “I was never one to take the easy way out. That’s why I gave Bishop a chance when you wouldn’t and why I never hated Bishop the way you all did. I was hurt – I am still, with this drilled up soul of mine – but don’t you think I ultimately _won_?” She tried to make her smile happy but, if anything, it was relieved. “Otherwise, would I have ever had Ilwyn?

“I tried to be angry – the Gods know I did. For _eight_ whole years I’ve been trying it - hells, Khelgar, I _was_ trying to do it just a few moments ago! And I can’t, I can’t…” she palmed her eyes to hold back the brimming tears.

Khelgar patted her back, visibly uneasy. “There, lass… Doona cry.”

“I’m _not_!”

“Yer almost. The fact that yer saying his name aloud gives me one less thing tae worry about; but it also gives me two more because I see that the slip of an elf was right.”

Firanis raised her eyebrows. “What did Elanee say?”

“If ye can’t hate the goddamned ranger after all he’s done tae ye – girl or no’, Firanis, what he did was unforgivable – how can ye hate yer half-brother who hasn’t done nothing to ye _yet_?”

“Was that what Elanee said?” Somehow, she doubted it. Elanee had been the only person who’d seen her breaking down one day in Arborea – she certainly had more input to her current predicament than that bit of common sense.

“No. She just said that ye had a thing for people like Bishop and was afraid the whole thing ye two had going would happen over again with Shemal. And none of us wants that.”

“He’s my _brother_ , Khelgar!” Firanis dryly exclaimed.

“Elanee dinna kno’ that. Tae be exact, neither do ye.”

Firanis pursed her lips tightly and, leaning against the wall, stubbornly crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m over Bishop and Shemal _is_ my brother. Nothing of _that_ sort will happen to me.”

Almost pityingly, Khelgar sighed. “I doona kno’ if it’s me head throbbing not but the way I just heard that… yer saying it in the hopes tae make it true.”

“It _is_ true.”

“So ye say… so ye say.”

Firanis did not like Khelgar’s patronizing tone one bit but she let the matter drop; she didn’t want to discuss the matter anymore any more than she wanted to leave Neverwinter today in heavy disagreement with her friends.

A few minutes after, in a face which was clearly clean-shaved and washed, her uncle came.

“For the love of the Gods! It _is_ true!” He stood in front of her in disbelief before pulling Firanis off the chair to envelop her in a bear hug. “I thought the dwarf had gone crazy when he showed up yesterday.”

Khelgar _harrumphed_. “Sure, blame me.” 

“Well, for all I knew, you could’ve been lost in the wilderness for all this time and the lack of ale had driven you mad.” Duncan released Firanis to hold her at an arm’s length, taking a proper look at her face. “I’m grateful you didn’t. Firanis just _where_ have you been? Daeghun’s been searching for you – he still is.”

Firanis was washed away with guilt, remembering her adoptive father’s sorrowful voice in the merciless frozen landscapes of Fury’s Heart; biting into her cheek, she imagined Daeghun’s relentless search for her and the misery he must’ve faced day after day when he did not find her. After all, it’d have been a pretty impossible task unless he’d stepped into a portal at some point.

 “I… wanted to know how he is, Uncle,” she whispered. “But I suppose I already know, don’t I?”

“There were no bodies,” her uncle clarified.

“No.” Firanis looked down. “There weren’t.”

Daeghun… he’d lost everything once before; as a result, he became cold, aloof, never allowing himself to feel strongly again. Once or twice, however, Firanis had seen it there, the warmth of emotion shining on his eyes… Without realizing, he’d let his barriers down and had cared for Firanis as a father would. So impossible or not, it wasn’t in Daeghun to give up his search; even if the outcome would shatter him, he’d keep on looking until he found proof of it.

He wouldn’t rest until he had a concrete proof that he’d lost everything again.

Firanis sighed, feeling the strain of the past few years weighing her down. “When was the last time you saw him?”

Her uncle paused a bit before answering. “I don’t know… three months? Four? He rarely stops at the same place for too long; he feels as though he’s failed you somehow.”

A nostalgic smile lifted the corners of Firanis’s lips. “Knowing father, he’s probably regretting that I was caught up in all that crap and blames himself on my presumable death.” Firanis buried her head on her hands. “I wanted to tell him I was okay but…” She gave her uncle a pondering glance before turning to Khelgar. “What have you told him?”

“That we’ve been in the Upper Planes and ye couldn’t come back, so neither of us did.” Khelgar replied. “But no’ much, I’m afraid.”

Firanis arched a brow. “Why not?”

“I missed the ale too much. I was too busy getting reacquainted with it.”

The aasimar just shook her head. “Well, uncle, to cut a long story short, I did a very clumsy thing to the pathways between the planes - that was why I wasn’t back sooner or sent a message to you telling I was okay. But in order to open the portal to lead us out of Merdelain, I,” Firanis bit into her lip, the memory of the blind, rushing panic still too living on her mind, “I used my own blood as a catalyst and in the process my soul was split from it and ended up in Fury’s Heart. I was… numb there. I couldn’t feel, I couldn’t think; the cold held me and I was stuck there, with no will to get back.” Firanis closed her eyes and shuddered. She could almost see it now, all the blood seeping from her and falling into the snow, blood red tainting virgin white and her struggle to identify the emotion that followed. And there, as her strength left her, there had been Bishop, first his eyes and then his voice, talking to her, telling she was cold, that she was cursed and that it had to end! The backstabbing liar had reached her before anyone else, had demolished her hopes, bathed her in pain and snatched away a piece of her shattered soul.

Again, Firanis wished she could just hate Bishop and be done with it; and, just like the time before, she utterly failed.

“I think,” Firanis kept on after taking in a breath and licking her lips. “I think I was holding on to something there, in my soul – and because that part was fading, I was refusing to return unless it came back with me in its wholeness. And I heard them – all of my friends – calling me, telling me to just get back to them. Daeghun was there too, Uncle and he was so pained… Each of them gave me back a measure of my strength but it was my father who gave me the will to get up and walk. I was determined – but still I couldn’t find my way. Something remained absent.

“So, if Daeghun comes back while I’m gone… please tell him he _did_ find me. Through layers and planes, he reached me when I needed him the most; without him, I’d have truly died. For it was his love for me, his child, that made me get up and find my own missing piece… my very own child.”

Firanis smiled at Duncan and Khelgar who were both looking completely taken aback; her Uncle because of the news and Khelgar because she was probably _talking_ about things she’d kept hidden for eight years. Firanis had felt so selfish back then, withholding facts from the people who’d saved her life… but she felt she could finally voice it all now because, after so many years as a burden she didn’t want to add up to her friends’ concerns, Firanis saw it now as the plain and simple truth only.

“I don’t think you’ve met her yet, Uncle Duncan.” Firanis raised a hand towards the fireplace. “Ilwyn, come here, will you?”

Ilwyn, whose hands had been wrapped around one of Yarija’s, holding it in front of her eyes to intently inspect it, looked at the Zhent before releasing her and scurrying towards her mother. “Mom?”

Firanis grabbed Ilwyn by the shoulders and spun the child around so that she was facing Duncan. “Ilwyn, this is your Uncle Duncan. Uncle, this is your great-nice, Ilwyn.”

If Firanis had, even for the merest buoyant second, doubted that Duncan would identify who’d fathered Ilwyn, she no longer did. Recognition flared in his face as he squatted down to receive a kiss from Ilwyn on his cheek; that same look was still there when he got up, mouthing an “Are you serious?”

Firanis just nodded before taking a hand to brush the top of her daughter’s head. “What were you doing with Lady Yarija?”

“Reading her palms.” Ilwyn’s brown eyes sparkled with contentment. “Can I go back, mom?” 

“Yes.” Firanis gave the girl a little push, sending Ilwyn on her way. “As you can see,” she said, low and hoarse, turning back to Duncan. “I _did_ bring some of the missing pieces back with me.”

Duncan was silent, his profile turned to her as he watched Ilwyn take Yarija’s hand again to resume what she’d been doing. Then, after a while, he shook his head, sighing softly, “I should never have asked Bishop to help you.”

At this, Firanis chuckled. “Oh Uncle, believe me – if anyone’s to blame, then it’d be me. I made my own bed with that one.” She shrugged. “But you know… she’s really something, Ilwyn is and I don’t regret her one bit.”

“And you’ve had help,” Khelgar dryly added. “I can still feel her pulling my beard from her crib.”

“Everyone else was careful with their hair; it’s your own fault for not keeping it out of reach.” Firanis bit her lip to repress a laugh at the humorous memory of Khelgar trying to free himself from a baby Ilwyn and doing nothing but to cry for help because he was afraid to crush her little hands. “Back to what matters… I couldn’t leave without introducing Ilwyn to her family and if you see Daeghun, Uncle—”

Duncan gave her a knowing nod. “I’ll tell him he has a granddaughter.”

“Thank you.” Firanis smiled, feeling a strange, genuine warmth spreading throughout her face. “Daeghun could be cold sometimes but… If I ever did, I can’t really hold a grudge against him any longer. Criticizing him for being so aloof… I did not know how it was to be a sole parent to a child. I still don’t – like Khelgar said, I had help - but I’ve come closer to understand him. I both love and admire my father for being so strong.”

“I’ll tell him that as well,” Duncan was now smiling as well. “Anything else?”

Firanis smile twisted to become shrewd and sharp. “I need to know where Axle is.”

All happiness dropped as Duncan’s eyes bulged out in blatant disbelief. “You want to resume your business with the Shadow Thieves?”

Firanis shrugged. “He _did_ use my name to make a better bed for himself and from what I’ve been told he’s all that’s standing between a full Zhent occupation; Neverwinter’s in a bad state, Uncle, and as sardonic as it seems, the Shadow Thieves are one of the pillars to keep it intact.”

“Better the criminals you know than the ones you don’t, then?” Duncan nodded, appreciating. “You do have a nice point.”

Firanis breathed in, remembering the day she’d begun associating with the Shadow Thieves. It had been a gamble, she thought and it had probably somehow paid off. She inclined her head and lowered her voice, “There’s one reason I didn’t join the Watch when I had the chance.”

“Will you finally tell me why?” her uncle had frequently insisted on her choice of sides but she’d never really given him an answer. It had been pure instinct, Firanis had thought at the time. But she now knew there had been something lurking behind her preference, something… chaotic.

“Justice is blind, Uncle,” the aasimar sighed. “The outlaws are not. I figured that if I could figure out what hurt the people, then I could stop it. I was so stupid. And blind. I was stupid and blind with lots of things. Like Justice.” Her voice acquired a bitterness which clung to her tongue like bile and Firanis had to hug herself to mask the sudden shudder which raked her spine. “I’m not like that any longer; in a city, crime is inevitable – so, if you’re going to live with it, you might as well control it.”

Duncan reeled back as though her words had taken physical form and had slapped him across the face. “You’ve certainly changed. I thought the Upper Planes were supposed to be peaceful; I don’t remember you being so calculating.”

“They are; it’s I who am not.” Firanis was sounding harsher than she wanted to, so she immediately smoothened down her tone. “I’m sorry, Uncle. It’s just… I’ve had a lot of time to think about where things went wrong and how I could make the best of my mistakes.” She paused to lick her lips. “I have to help Neverwinter – so many things I hold dear depend on her fate – and I know that being naïve and trusting as I once was isn’t one the keys to it. Strategy, logic and plotting… they are. I’ve made myself understand them all so I wouldn’t be caught unaware as I have been before.”

Her Uncle rubbed his forehead with a hand, a heavy breath parting his lips. “So as long as you know what you’re doing…”

It amused Firanis that he was repeating the same sentence he’d told her the moment she decided to pick Axle’s side over the Watch’s. Duncan then proceeded to tell her the new location of Axle’s hideout – now in Blacklake, showing off how much profit the Shadow Thieves had had with Neverwinter.

Firanis thanked her Uncle and looked at Yarija. What she was going to discuss with Axle… A very small part of Firanis told her she could trust Yarija but she knew better than to trust her instincts blindly; after all, they’d led her into some nasty predicaments in the past and this was _not_ something she was willing to take a chance on… She’d have to find a way to keep the woman from following her; but how?

“Khelgar, will you stay here and watch Ilwyn?” she asked the dwarf. “Yarija is going to have to stay here as well and I’d rather not have my child alone with someone I’ve met just now,” however strongly her core kept telling her it was fine, she mentally added.

“Sure,” Khelgar agreed. “Ye might want tae take someone with ye, though. I doona kno’ if Axle is going tae be happy tae see ye.”

The aasimar nodded. “I’d wager he _won’t_. From what Lord Nasher told me yesterday evening, Axle’s been a little too keen on using the connections he had to my theoretically dead self to boost his rank. Having me alive after all… he’ll think his position is endangered.” Firanis tapped her nose, sighing thoughtfully. “Worst thing is, our best chance of survival lies with him.”

“Who are ye going tae take, then?”

“Neeshka, Zhjaeve and Ammon. Neeshka ought to be able to tell if something’s amiss in his behavior and as for the other two… you know them. Ammon’s cynical enough to discern whether or not Axle’s trying to deceive me and Zhjaeve has this keen sense towards the laws and all. I’ve found out it can be really helpful when you want to act smart towards the Thieves, you know?” She winked. “Do you know where they are?”

“The tiefling and the Gith are probably still in the Castle and Jerro went with the girl who got us out of the Upper Planes. How are ye going to keep the Zhent here?”

Firanis winked at him before approaching both her daughter and the Zhent. “Girls, I am going to do some last-hour dress shopping. Will you come or you’d rather stay here?”

As she’d expected, her daughter beamed at her and said, “We’ll stay, mom. I’m teaching Lady Yarija how to see souls.”

“I really shouldn’t−” Yarija began, only to be interrupted by Ilwyn again.

“Are you serious? You _don’t_ want to go with mom while she’s shopping. It’s boring.”

“And I won’t tell you let me out of your sight,” Firanis assured.

Yarija’s hesitation was almost palpable; she bit into the inside of her cheek before sighing and nodding swiftly, “Fine, then, have it your way.” 

 At the exit of the Flagon, Firanis caught Khelgar’s amused grin; she returned it and headed back towards the Castle.

Finding Neeshka wasn’t hard; she was still in her room, soft snores escaping her slumbering form. Firanis shook her awake, “Come now, Neeshka, the Watch is outside waiting for you to return the paintings you stole from the Collector…”

Neeshka just grumbled.

“And Senim has just teleported into your room.”

Instantly, Neeshka sat up. “No! Anything but him!”

Firanis laughed. “Itchy much?”

The tiefling grunted. “I should have known it was one of your ruses, Firanis. It’s _not_ funny!”

“But it is! I remember you saying you _liked_ when he eased the itch… and even more when he made it worse.” Firanis bent backwards to evade a flying pillow. “Ah, Neeshka… who’d say _you_ would find the Heavens exciting?”

The tiefling’s cheeks became rouge, “It’s exactly because I _didn’t_ that it happened in the first place!” She irritatingly exclaimed. “For Tymora’s sake, Firanis, quit it.”

Firanis dropped off her joking façade. “I won’t until you tell me why you’ve been so worked up whenever we mention Senim.”

Neeshka blew into the empty space before dryly replying, “He’s a deva, I’m a tiefling. Clear enough?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall it having stopped you before…”

“Things were getting pretty serious.” Neeshka bit down her lip, her face drawn in pain; Firanis frowned, knowing it was a display the other woman only rarely allowed. “I had to stop it before it got worse; there was no future and Senim… he didn’t deserve to be hurt just because I didn’t belong there.”

“So you hurt him a little just to spare him greater pain?” At her question, Neeshka nodded. “Oh Neeshka…”

The tiefling held out a hand to halt Firanis’s speech. “I’m fine, Firanis, really. I’ve had a year to think it through and it really was the right choice.” Then she smiled a little, her voice back to its natural high pitching sound. “It’s just like Elanee said – I needed a bit maturing and here it is! Now what’s it you want this early?”

Firanis had noticed the way Neeshka had tried to change the subject and how her voice had cracked at the end, giving away the fact that even after a year, she was still affected by it. But there was nothing to gain from pursuing the subject further – at least not today. So Firanis told Neeshka of her plans concerning Axle instead and, after the tiefling agreed to come, waited for her to get ready.

Watching Neeshka closely on their way to Zhjaeve’s room, Firanis couldn’t help but wonder if she shouldn’t have forced her companions to leave her while they got the chance; before they got too attached. Except that she hadn’t really envisioned _Neeshka_ would be the one to find some measure of love in the Upper Planes. Celestials were all kind and generous but most of them had a black-and-white view of the world, thus viewing tieflings as beings who could _never_ be trusted. Senim however… he’d looked past all that, past all the prejudice and stereotyping and had somehow managed to win a spot in Neeshka’s carefully warded heart. And Neeshka had been so happy too…

Firanis gulped. Why weren’t some things just meant to be?

Zhjaeve was already up when they knocked on her door. “You’re going to visit Axle?” the Githzerai asked. “It is wise of you, Firanis. Maybe you’re finally able to _know_ when you should leave things secure before you leave.”

The aasimar couldn’t help but to grimace at the subtle accusation in Zhjaeve’s words. The Gith had _not_ been happy when they were told yesterday that Axle had been floundering Firanis’s name as though it was his own just to earn a position; she’d given the aasimar a pointed glare - too much unlike her typically calm reaction for Firanis not to notice – and had, in a very low hiss said, _“_ Knowing _whose allies will be making use of your favors would have been sensible information to obtain when you were gathering them_. _”_

Truer words had never been spoken; still, what had been done could not be erased and _maybe_ having her name used was a small price to pay for what she was going to ask Axle to do.

“Does anyone know where Tyavain lives?” Firanis asked her two companions.

“Remember me telling you of that big mansion I’d always wanted to rob?” Neeshka said. “Well, that’s it. I heard her family’s house was standard before but after the war against Luskan, Tyavain’s grandfather got off with a nice part of the land.”

“And what does that have to do with the fact you’ve _never_ tried to rob it?” The aasimar raised an eyebrow.

Neeshka’s eyes bulged out in disbelief. “Are you _serious_? There’s _always_ people awake in that place and the locks.” She grimaced. “The locks are the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen; word is Tyavain’s mother designed them so no one but her would be able to pick them open… not to mention you can’t get a forged key for anything less than a fortune, which I never really had at the time.”

“You got caught.” Zhjaeve muttered.

“Pretty much, yeah.” Neeshka let out a shaky, nervous laugh. “They were really nice, though, considering the circumstances.”

“They didn’t arrest you?” Firanis asked.

“No. Her mother doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Nasher and all, so she let me free so as long as I made trouble for the City Watch elsewhere; she likes our Great Ruler with problems on his hands so he won’t have time to worry about her sister coming over to visit her.”

“Her sister?” Firanis chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I remember Sand mentioning something, but…”

“She is – or was - the Hero of Neverwinter,” Neeshka explained. “She had a fallout with Nasher though, regarding Aarin Gend – his former spymaster – and Aribeth.” The tiefling shrugged nonchalantly. “I really don’t know the details, though. You’ll have to ask someone else if you want to know more about it.”

Firanis nodded and, together with both Neeshka and Zhjaeve, headed towards the majestic house by the lake. A butler came to greet them and invited the trio to wait in a sparse, richly furnished room.

“I shall inform Lady Tyavain her guests have arrived,” he said before he left them.

Firanis looked around herself, examining her surroundings. “She _does_ live in grand style,” she jadedly stated. “Is _that_ a _grappling hand_!?”

“A demonic grappling hand,” Tyavain’s voice came from the doorway, correcting her. “Mother picked it up in Cania.” A little smile graced her thin lips. “You should see the weaponry as well. Evilest looking daggers I’ve ever seen; talking longswords, too.”

“You’re looking better today,” Firanis commented.

A confused look crossed the young woman’s face. “Am… I?” Her blue eyes darkened and she looked past Firanis unblinkingly, mouth ajar. Her voice was a bare whisper, a raspy breath, “I… don’t know?” Her hands were nearly grappling her face by then, nails digging deep into her scalp.

At a loss of words, Firanis looked at both Neeshka and Zhjaeve; the first apologetically shrugged but the last…

“Go to her. Your heritage will ease the Lower Planes call,” muttered the Gith.

Without another choice, Firanis took Zhjaeve’s advice and touched Tyavain lightly on the young half-elven tiefling’s bare shoulder. “Yes you do, Tyavain,” Firanis stated.

It was as if the young woman was seeing Firanis for the first time. Acknowledgment flared in Tyavain’s face, sharp and resolute; then, apparently collecting herself, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I am sorry,” she apologized. “The Taints have got worse; they both keep trying to make reply differently and it’s… agonizing.”

“But you were in the Lower Planes before coming to rescue us. Shouldn’t things have been harder there, right in the middle of the Blood Wars?” Firanis asked.

Tyavain bit down into her lower lip, raising a hand to her shoulder so she could grasp Firanis’s harder. But she did not reply; instead, in a wavering voice, she merely whispered, “You’re just like Trias. You bring sanity to where madness is.”

“Yes and she can also be incredibly blind sometimes,” Ammon interrupted from behind Tyavain, his eyes still red and puffy from sleep. “What could you want _this_ early in the morning anyway?”

Firanis’s mouth quirked up in a lopsided smile, “Something tells me someone stayed up late last night. Aren’t you getting a bit too old for that, Ammon?” she teased.

The warlock made a deep, guttural grunt, indicating he was not amused at where the conversation was heading to. “In case you don’t remember, you’re leaving a lot of ground to cover around here; eventually, someone has to do it for you.”

The aasimar turned to Tyavain, her face deadpan. “Why do you host such grumpy, old people?”

Still holding Firanis’s hand, Tyavain winked. “He’s good to talk to when you haven’t disturbed his beauty sleep.”

“I’m starting to think I like you better when you’re mad,” Jerro hissed. “And don’t get too used to having Firanis to ease the taints; she’s leaving.”

“I know that,” Tyavain stated, almost panicked. “Don’t you think I know that? I said… I said…”

Regret washed over Jerro’s face almost immediately. “Yes. She’s just like Trias. You said that.”

Swallowing, the half-elven tiefling nodded. “I know but it’s just… You have no idea what’s like to find a beacon of reason in the middle of insanity.”

“No,” Ammon conceded. “But I know what’s like to find a speck of light in the middle of darkness.”

“That… You do.” Tyavain let Firanis’s hand go and stepped backwards. “But I am keeping you here. I am told you still have an important errand to run before leaving, Firanis. I bid you good luck.”

And, in a wave of billowing fiery red hair, Tyavain was gone. 

Neeshka was the first one to speak, her reddish eyes narrowed to slits. “Why did you come with her last night?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, tiefling,” Jerro said, tone dry and raspy. “But Tyavain and I had very important business to talk about.”

“The Planes?” Neeshka persisted. And, just after those words had escaped her lips, something in Firanis’s mind tinkered, pleading for attention. She turned to Ammon, her features overruled by shock.

“Your debts,” the aasimar murmured.

“Yes,” Ammon stated. “ _My_ debts; once again, nothing to concern yourself over. Tyavain knows some interesting people down there in the Lower Planes, that’s all.”

Knowing Ammon Jerro the way she did, Firanis noted that, just like with Neeshka, it was best not to pursue the subject further today. She told him of Axle and asked whether he’d be willing to go with them or not.

“Might as well, since you’ve plucked me out of bed already,” Jerro grumbled. “Let us go, then.”

The new address of the Shadow Thieves in Blacklake wasn’t far from Tyavain’s family home. Although not as flamboyantly presented, Firanis found the new “hideout” – if it indeed could be called that – to be quite the sumptuous house; she admired it upon reaching her destination, the tall and ivory-painted three story building, with its shutters open to reveal the beautiful red drapes billowing freely in the breeze.

Much to her luck, it was Uncus who answered her rapping on the front door. Almost immediately, he paled, jaw hanging open in unmasked surprise.

“F… Firanis!?” he stammered and then, in a low tone, added almost to himself. “So it is true…”

“Yes, I suppose your informants have already begun spreading the news.” It was Ammon Jerro who spoke, visibly out of patience. “Now take us to Axle, will you? We’re all in a hurry.”

The thief frowned. “It normally takes an appointment, but… Mask, Axle’s probably expecting you anyway.” His shoulders sagged and he let them in, leading them into a large study. A warm, red carpet covered the floor and various books covered the walls from floor to ceiling. There was a handsome mahogany desk as well, stacked with various papers, an ink bottle and a pen stand and behind it, Axle. He did not look up when the quartet entered, a line etched between his brows as he bent over a paper. “No, I do not recall allowing these weapons in…” he muttered. “This almost looks like something—” he caught himself, biting down his tongue; then, he looked up, onyx eyes directly boring into Firanis’s wintry-blue ones. A smirk teased his lips, “Ah, so the missing Nine finally returns. I was beginning to worry, mind you; thought Nasher was going to keep his personal bodyguard handicapped forever.”

Keeping steady, Firanis spoke, “Frankly, I was quite stupefied when you did not sneak any of your pets in,” she brought a smirk to her face to match his own. “Did you have _that_ much faith in me?”

“No. I was just too busy to concern myself over such matters. I already had one person in his inner circle – what makes you think I needed two?”

For all the apathy in his tone, Firanis couldn’t help the suspicion that he was trying to goad her into believing she was not needed; she still had one ace up her sleeve however and this was likely the most propitious time to play it.

“Then why, Axle, did you use my achievements to seize control of Neverwinter? Use the ties which bound us together to gain influence?” She raised an eyebrow and allowed herself a little rhetorical pause before continuing. “I commend you though – even my supposed _death_ served you well.” Firanis bowed courteously. “Whether you like it or not, you might have helped this city. A bit of community service never looks bad on anyone.”

She took a brief sideways look at Ammon Jerro, who gave her a short, nearly imperceptible nod; when Axle frowned, his black brows falling down in a ruthless manner, Firanis knew she’d hit the spot. “Where are you trying to get to, Firanis?”

The aasimar tilted one shoulder up in a half-shrug. “Oh, nothing; just that even though everyone criticized _me_ for picking your side of the fence,” at this, she gave Zhjaeve a meaningful glance, “everything I’ve done has paid up in the end. You’ve kept the Zhentarim out for years.”

For a few tense seconds, nothing was said; Firanis could hear Ammon’s hoarse breathing beside her and Neeshka’s light feet shifting; Zhjaeve was the only one who kept as still as a statue, the otherwise dull gold of her eyes sharp and glittering as she calmly appraised the situation.

All the while, Firanis bore the power of Axle’s peculiar scrutiny, as cold and as calculating as the blade of an assassin against her throat. After he was satisfied with his examination, he murmured, “You’re different, Firanis; you used to be trusting to an alarmingly stupid point; it _had_ dulled the last we saw each other but now…” he pointed a finger at the aasimar. “You’re colder. Like you’ve lost faith in something but haven’t figured it out yet.”

Firanis frowned and, when she spoke, her voice was low and dark. “I have not come here for you to assess how I’ve changed, Axle. I just want to know if Neverwinter can count on you when she needs it.”

“I have not been working in this city all these years only to lose it, if that’s what you’re asking,” Axle looked at her from under his lashes, a panther stalking its prey. “Were I to let this branch of the Shadow Thieves fall, I would be in a worse situation than you would were Neverwinter to be conquered.”

“Good,” Firanis prepared to spin and walk out, but she held up a hand, halting her own movement and keeping Axle’s attention from leaving her. She gave him a mirthless smile. “And you’re wrong. I know _exactly_ where I’ve misplaced my faith.”

She turned then, heading towards the door; her three companions left ahead but before Firanis could cross the doorsill, Axle said, “While you’re at it… there’s a rumor one of our deserters is hiding amid the Zhentarim.”

Without taking her eyes from the door, Firanis asked, “Want me to keep an eye out for him?”

“Yes,” Axle stated. “He’s medium-heighted, plain-looking. You’ll most likely see him clad in dark cloth – hooded, preferentially.”

“Those are not really good pointers, Axle; more than half of the population could be described as such.”

The Shadow thief made a clicking sound with his tongue before resuming his explanation, “I was getting there. He doesn’t really draw attention to himself, it’s one of his many good attributes as a thief; however, if you _do_ notice him and his face is visible, he should have a really ugly scar on his right side – from eyebrow to cheekbone.”

“Oh? How did he get it?”

“Word is Aarin Gend gave it to him when he caught Rekat robbing Castle Never before the Wailing Death struck – some contract with a bored noblewoman if I recall correctly,” Axle quickly caught himself with a subtle shake of his head. “But I digress. You should be able to recognize him if you see the scar; also, unless he’s dyed it, he’s got black hair; his eyes, too, should give him away. They’re pale, luminescent green – almost like water – and contrast with his shadowy demeanor.”

“And if he’s _not_ uncovered?” Firanis enquired.

“The Ladies say he’s got the sexiest voice.” It was evident Axle found that statement entertaining. She could almost see the hilarity hovering along with his voice.

Firanis snorted. He was telling her she was supposed to find a supposedly discreet man by listening to him talking or by unclothing him. She’d had harder jobs. “Fine, I’ll keep my eyes peeled. You just worry about keeping the Zhentarim off our borders.”

“Always, Firanis. I didn’t you to come here remind me of—”

Wordlessly, she slammed the door behind her, cutting off the last of Axle’s sentence.

“He is afraid of you,” Zhjaeve coolly noted once they were outside.

“And he thinks you’ll ruin everything he’s achieved these past eight years,” Neeshka added. “You could tell from the way he was trying to make you feel like nothing at the beginning.” She then paused to look at Firanis. “I still don’t know why you’re leaving.”

“Well, you should, considering you’ve known about the curse for longer than I have,” Firanis quickly bit down her tongue, not wanting to sound too scathing and bitter. “My answers lie in Luskan, Neeshka, not here.”

“Yeah, but I don’t get why they want you; you’ve been dead for all everyone knows and all of a sudden, in the exact moment you get back, there’s this evil hot guy waiting, claiming he will attack Neverwinter if you do not come with him.” Neeshka made a squeaky sound. “Quite fishy, if you ask me.”

“Neeshka is right,” Zhjaeve agreed. “It was not a coincidence; he’s been waiting for you and he _knew_ when you were coming.”

“How could he when _I_ did not?” Firanis inquired.

“The same way Sand scryed Tyavain years ago,” Jerro clarified. “The same way Sand asked for the girl specifically, so did Shemal with you.” His tone acquired a somber, graver note. “Something tells me _you_ are right in the middle of whatever he’s planning. Be careful with him.”

 

 

The wait had nearly set him on edge. But it had paid off.

Watching Firanis say goodbye to all her friends, Shemal examined each and everyone of their expressions, as well as the aasimar’s.

She knelt in front of the dwarf and her lips moved as she said something with a smile; the monk, however, didn’t seem to buy it off because he shook his head just slightly before he crushed her in an awkward hug. When Firanis pulled away and moved on to the tiefling, her smile was sad and heavy.

A high, thin, clear sound reached his ears after the tiefling and the aasimar exchanged words. Shemal blinked, every fiber of his being replying to that crystalline laugh. He wanted to force her right there and then… but he’d been so patient and she’d soon come to him… surely a few more minutes wouldn’t matter.

Shemal could see Firanis’s grey-blue eyes glistening when she hugged the wood elf – and how the druidess so gingerly entangled her fingers with Firanis’s copper locks, the gesture reeking with so much pain and fear it was almost motherly.

The gnome came after and he, too, made her laugh; Shemal’s body twitched when she patted the gnome in the head before kneeling down to kiss his cheek.

The air around him seemed to cool down when it was the Paladin’s turn. Firanis stopped, her head turned to the side as she so visibly hesitated in her farewell. It wasn’t… _love_ which bound those two together – at least not the physical kind of it; no, it wasn’t that but it was something which ran as deeply. Still, even knowing they were not connected in that way, Shemal couldn’t suppress the flame of anger and hatred which was born in his heart right at the moment the aasimar lifted her hand to touch the Paladin’s cheek, whispering something which caused his eyes to shot open and his hand to wrap around hers.

Patient… He must be patient…

The moon elf wizard handed her something, earning a puzzled stare from the aasimar. If her hugging the dwarf had been awkward, then there was no describing of how it was with the wizard; still, it felt honest, true and sincere… as though those two were frontal to each other.

Then came the Gith. With the veil covering half of the spotted face, Shemal could not be certain if she was speaking or not; still, Firanis nodded before bowing respectfully. Whatever advice she’d been given… he was certain the aasimar valued it.

The last… the last was the old man, holding a child by the hand. Even from the distance, Shemal didn’t miss the tremor’s which raked the girl’s arm. Firanis went to the girl first, touching her thumbs to the corners of the girl’s eyes. The child looked up at her mother as if she’d finally woken up to find her nightmares brought into the real world.

Shemal found himself frowning. That girl was a pebble on his shoe – more bothersome than truly harmful – but still… he’d have to get rid of her sooner or later, not to mention he planned on exacting revenge on who had touched that which was rightfully his.

He’d waited so long… Day after day, year after year, for the one person who could ease the heat – the one person made specifically to counter his burning hatred and his painful hunger. She was all he needed and everything he coveted – and for that, he would kill the person who had dared to try stealing _her_ away from him as well as he would vanquish all things which tied her to whatever man was responsible for the little hateful spawn.

Shemal fumed when Firanis hugged the child – and when the girl’s honey eyes so shyly met his own, he allowed her to see everything he his from everyone else. The little girl quickly looked away, burying her head in her mother’s hair as sobs shook her tiny frame and Shemal reveled in the triumph of it. The fact that she looked nothing like her mother would only make her demise easier.

Firanis gave the old man a peculiar little smile before she touched her hand to his – and, after bowing to her Lord Nasher and nodding towards his most loyal Nine, Sir Nevalle, she began heading towards him.

Shemal breathed in the cool, fresh air.

She was coming… Finally, the ease to his suffering was coming.

 

 

The last thing Firanis saw in the cluster of people watching her go was Ilwyn’s clothing, orange and yellow – far, far too bright for a winter day.

But that was exactly what she was, wasn’t it?

A Light so strong it broke through an opaque clouded sky.

It was the only memory which remained when she saw Shemal, nonchalantly leaning against the carriage. Everything else seemed to fade, consumed by a white-hot liquid fire which had begun coursing through her veins.

Shemal stepped closer to her, smiling and impossibly perfect smile which melted her insides and made her core bloom. He was dressed in leather pants and a white silk tunic which appeared to be purposely held halfway open to casually show the center of his well-defined golden pectorals.

Firanis tried to disguise the strong way in which her teeth were biting into her lower lip as a wave of pure, unadulterated heat swept through her.

“You wear the face of a prisoner rather than of a guest, Firanis,” he had an eerily melodic, lulling voice whose rough edges seemed to knead their way into her ears. “Would you tell me why?”

The aasimar tried to still herself, to summon back the familiar coolness she needed to deal with this man. “Aren’t you taking me as one, Lord Shemal?”

He _tsked_. “Do you see any chains?” he spread his arms to the side to emphasize his point.

She couldn’t help but let her eyes float to the bared rock-hard muscles but quickly got a hold on herself and directed her wandering gaze back to his face. Squinting, she hissed, “Should I believe that you find my word of enough value, then? I _did_ give it to you yesterday after all.”

His laughter was the chiming of thick crystal bells. “You are a warlock, my dear; according to the pacts your people have to make, you either have to defy Goodness or Law; and since you don’t look evil to me, I’d better _not_ expect much of your word.”

Firanis pursed her lips and balled her hands into fists. A pull, similar to the one she’d felt when near Yarija was trying to bind her to Shemal only that, compared to the previous one, this one was much, much stronger.

He was her brother; still, whatever lurked in her soul was begging her to throw herself into his arms because that was where she belonged. And the Gods help her, regardless of everything she’d told Khelgar, she was finding it very hard to resist.

No man should be so flat-out beautiful.

“If my promises can’t be trusted, why then are you not recurring to binds to prevent me from running?” she asked softly, almost dreading his answer.

He seemed confused; both his eyebrows shot up and he blinked several times. “You should know it; you _do_ know it.” His hand came up to curl one of the loose strands of her copper hair around the index finger; every time the finger moved to twine more hair, Firanis felt the pull on her head, intoxicating and irresistible; when he stopped, hand near her scalp, Shemal’s lips curled and the world vanished until only they remained. Some silly part of her was pleading for attention, telling her he was dangerous, telling her to back away…

Firanis didn’t really want to. She was so cold and Shemal, with his fingers scraping her temples, was so warm… He tucked the lock of hair he was holding behind her ear, then the rest of her fringe so he could whisper against it, unhindered. “You belong to me.”

She didn’t object; she didn’t find it in her to want to. Any of the ice inside her that still remained, it melted, sizzling to a boil as his scalding breath brushed against her once, twice… Firanis felt weak and wanted nothing more but to crumble to her knees and ask him for mercy.

His hand came down, trailing her jaw, gently tilting her chin. She was all warm on the inside, her limbs growing lazy, languid in their defeat…

 _Touch his heart,_ a voice boomed among the lethargic mass which were her scrambled thoughts. Firanis tried to ignore it at first, but it grew insistent, commanding. Shemal ran the tips of his free fingers through the surface of her lips, parting them. Who could even say for sure _he_ was her brother anyway? She wouldn’t be feeling this hot if he were, she _surely_ wouldn’t; and he wouldn’t be doing this to someone he knew to be his sister, would he?

 _Frimma the Frozen Fire, touch his heart!_ The voice exclaimed and, with a force that was even stronger and more persuasive than Shemal’s heady touch, Firanis’s right hand was raised to rest upon the solid planes of his golden chest. It expanded under her strokes, all hairless skin and steel-hard muscle…

With a squeal, Firanis stepped back, clutching her hand to her stomach. Death, so much death and a bottomless well of hatred; darkness beckoning, calling, wrapping around her in chains and dragging her into the spiraling black sun… Her breath came in heavy, shallow gasps even though her chest hurt with the cold which had suddenly risen inside her.

And Shemal… he was not smiling anymore nor was his gaze half-lidded and seductive. Indeed, he wasn’t even looking _at_ her! His fearsome scowl was aimed at someone behind her; a low grumble erupted from the back of his throat, making her shudder.

Even then, with that irate, creased face and while still feeling the shadows looming within him like muck on her skin, Firanis thought Shemal beautiful.

Wary to know who could defy him so, Firanis looked over her shoulder. Just a couple of inches behind her was Tyavain.

She, too, wasn’t focusing on Firanis but standing her ground against Shemal’s frightening glower. Caught in the middle, Firanis felt the energy cackling between them; she didn’t know what to do. In fact, despite Tyavain having helped her get back in the Prime Material Plane, she didn’t know her any better than she did Shemal.

Right now, Firanis wasn’t sure who she should fear the most.

“Who do you think you are?” Shemal asked, mouth barely opening to let out the words.

Tyavain lifted her chin, solidifying her stance. “When it concerns you, I’m the Lady of the Mad.”

“Thinking ourselves of importance, are we?” His tone rose high at the end in jingling mockery.

“No more than certain fools do,” Tyavain bit back, arms crossing across her chest as her lids lowered. “I know you, Ice Flame, better than you do yourself.”

Shemal’s brows united. “We’ve never met.”

Tyavain’s hair began rising, the ends lifting inches above her waist. “ _You_ don’t know it; but it doesn’t mean we haven’t,” the blue in Tyavain’s eyes began swirling along with rivulets of red. “Your essence has not changed. Or did you forget the succubus and the Chained?”

“You haven’t−”

“Just because you were not informed of it, it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Tyavain scathingly snapped. “Compared to us, you’re but a fledgling. You know nothing.”

“I do not?” Shemal lifted an eyebrow.

“No. And if you’re to learn something, learn _this_ ,” Tyavain tilted her head towards Firanis, “ _she_ is not yours. And in case you doubt it, there’s living evidence.”

Shemal laughed, maintaining his cynical façade. Something in him was not unsettling Firanis and she was sure it had to do with the raging fires he had contained in him; she felt them leaping when he asked, “There is? What is it, then?”

“She. Who is _she_ ,” Tyavain corrected.

Firanis did not like it one single bit that Tyavain was referring to her daughter as a _proof_ ; much less when she was hinting that Firanis still belonged to someone in the past; that she belonged to someone she had moved on from. “Wait a moment,” she began.

“ _Who_ is _she_ , then?” Shemal indulged the Truenamer, his deep voice rising above Firanis’s.

“Her name is Ilwyn. You couldn’t have missed her yesterday; she was clinging to her mother as thought Firanis was life itself. The anchor may be lifted but it is tied to the boat.” At this, Tyavain placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed, leaning forward to speak softly so that Firanis only would listen. “The Gods are cruel sometimes, but in order to achieve a greater good, one must go through a great deal of evil, Firanis. Sometimes salvation is where we least expect it. Don’t… forget that, please. Not until the next time we meet.”

“Tyavain−”

The girl who was no longer a girl but a woman gave her a bitterly nostalgic smile. Her voice was meek and hoarse and strangely pained. “You’re just like Trias, Firanis. How could I hurt you?”

And, giving her shoulder one last squeeze, Tyavain turned and began walking away, her swaying figure holding the aasimar in a trance as her last words rung over and over again in her ears… _You’re just like Trias_ , she’d said. Did that mean that she knew the deva feared her, even if only a little bit? There had been no mistake in the affection Firanis had sensed between the two but love didn’t equal unwavering courage. Perhaps having people fearing her hurt Tyavain and that was what she’d meant? She was like Trias because her fearing Tyavain hurt the tiefling?

“Do you often deal with barmy half-breeds?” Shemal’s voice pulled her away from her thoughts and the hypnotic rhythm of Tyavain’s walking. Looking at him again, Firanis noted he had one foot up in the coach and was holding out a hand for her.

Closing the distance between them, Firanis took it, the sheer warmth of it swiftly flooding her body in a thunderous shiver. “She helped me when no one else could,” the aasimar replied. She sat across from Shemal, noticing both the half-drow cleric who’d been with him yesterday and Yarija were not present.

That pleasure-laden, sultry smile was back on Shemal’s lips. “Both Vasjra and Yarija went on ahead by horseback to take care of things concerning your arrival.”

 _Which means_ , she mentally added, _I’m going to travel all the way alone with him. In this cramped one and a half square meters cubicle called carriage._

As his long legs brushed her own, Firanis could only swallow the lump on her throat and pray.

She was going to keep the ice-blue flame of detached anger close by. Just in case.

 

 

Bishop stopped when he caught her scent, the scent of flowers frozen down by an icy wind, the scent of cold mountains, the scent of glacial mornings, days, evenings and nights; he heard her voice - the voice that had been like a soothing whisper, a sensuous caress – agreeing to whatever terms she’d been placed under. He turned and he saw a black dress billowing like a soft shadow, the splits occasionally revealing the lean, white, shapely legs; he saw the hair framing the round face, hair that was of the same color as copper under the sunset.

Her. Firanis Hlaetlarn, wearing black clothes symbolizing sorrow, pain and loss and surrounded by Luskans who would rather use her for target practice than keep as a hostage.

Torio shifted in her position beside him. “When I heard them mention the Captain of Crossroad Keep, I always thought about Kana; I would never have guessed that they were referring to _her_.” She eyed Bishop with curiosity. “At least try to keep it neutral, ranger, lest they’ll notice you did more than serving _under_ her in the past.” Torio took a finger to her chin, thoughtfully, and added maliciously. “Because I’m guessing that you did, indeed _end_ up on top once in a while.”

If his glare were a knife, she’d have been killed by now. Torio sighed. “Well, then, I’d better go down there and appease things before she ends up in some uncomfortable situations down there. Don’t leer at her overmuch in public, ranger.”

Bishop watched Torio go down the stairs of the Tower before turning back to Firanis. Shemal was by her side, his imposing figure making the aasimar look small and fragile.

He wasn’t sure for how long he stood there, gazing at the aasimar. The logical side of him kept saying he was going to wake up soon; but even after he’d pinched his arm several times, she still remained there, talking to Shemal and Torio, who’d already reached their side.

Firanis was _alive_. As incredible as it might seem, she’d survived a collapsing building and was still _alive_. His body grew still – _too still_ – to the point of refusing to acknowledge the outer world; there was a twisting on his insides, the churning, sinking of his stomach. He didn’t know what he was feeling now – but it wasn’t very pleasant.

“Bishop, you have to come down,” Yarija’s acute voice reached his ears; she was leaning against the balustrade of the balcony, breathing heavily; Rekat was behind her, looking upset.

“Why?” Bishop managed to croak. Hells, what was wrong with him? Firanis _should be_ within his buried memories… he should be feeling all this upon looking at her. Or maybe it was just the shock of seeing someone alive after thinking for so long she was dead. Yes, that was probably it: shock. And Luskan was a big place; he most likely wouldn’t even have to come face-to-face with Firanis once and if he was unlucky enough to do so… he should be able to handle it. He’d always been able to keep aloof and distant when facing someone or something he didn’t want to – Firanis would be no different.

“Shemal wants us three to keep an eye on the aasimar – see that she doesn’t get hurt. For all we know, these people here hate her for being responsible for the fall of the city.”

“We’re to follow her around,” Rekat summarized.

 _There I go, making assumptions too soon. Fuck._ In a mere second, Bishop cursed every single God he could think of. “Why us?”

“He doesn’t need to sabotage Neverwinter anymore,” Yarija explained. “He kept on saying he’d got the only thing he wanted from there.”

For a reason, what Yarija said troubled him greatly. Bishop didn’t let it show, though; he just shrugged and followed the woman and the thief down to the base of the tower and outside, in the street where the others stood.

“These three are to guard you, Firanis,” said Shemal in his deep, rough voice; Bishop frowned at how pleasant and convincing it was. “Yarija, Rekat and Bishop. I trust they’ll be able to keep anyone’s hands off you.”

At the mention of his name, Bishop saw Firanis’s frame straightening and her head turned to look at him. She was still so easy to read… it only lasted for moments but he saw that even though most of her face was steeled, her eyes wavered with an incredulity which gradually faded into deep sorrow – just like in the Vale of Merdelain.

 _No_. He wasn’t going to fall for it again; if she was here, it wasn’t because of him. People like him didn’t deserve second chances and _this_ was the way life had to punish him. Waver the one good thing he’d had in front of his eyes to mock him, to torment him. But he was stronger than that. He wasn’t going to give in into false hopes. He hadn’t _really_ cared for her in the past… he’d just overhyped his feelings because he’d thought her dead and wouldn’t have to deal with such _care_ again. He would just make sure he didn’t make the same mistake he had last time.

Bishop felt a cold breeze whisper through him, leaving goose bumps on his skin. He looked up just in time to see Shemal brushing Firanis’s cheek with his hand; jealousy squirmed into his mind; Firanis’s lips pursed and she turned to walk towards Rekat, Yarija and him.

Then, his eyes met hers again; the grey-blue seemed darker now, clouded, as though there were shadows behind it. Bishop remembered how, in the past, he’d liked when she returned his stare… it showed she was not afraid. Now, it was different; it haunted him, making the memories he’d tossed down the cliff of oblivion climb their arduous way back up to the surface again.

He remembered the assassin’s daughter, three years ago, in Amn and what she’d said as he, so naturally, tried to kill her blabber on her throat. _“You want to see her again, don’t you? Your body longs for hers again, melting against your skin, fully yours as it was before; your darkness longs for her light, to drown it again in the shadows of temptation… Oh, yes you do want her back… It’s choking you, as you are choking me now. You need her to feel whole, to feel alive, to feel free. You tell yourself you’re free as you are now, but you know it’s not true… Like this, you’re chained to her memory, to the past… And you love her, a secret you keep even from yourself. Her… Firanis Hlaetlarn.”_

And then she’d told him not to be afraid… Lunatic kid, really. What could he be afraid of, other than…

He caught his thoughts, frowning at the sudden conclusion.

He’d been afraid of his feelings.

_The girl was right all along…_

Bishop looked back at Firanis, with her firmly set jaw and lips set into a thin, pale line. Aside from those couple of glances, she hadn’t even looked at him again, not even a furtive, stray sideways look, like she’d always used to. Somewhere in those times, he’d had the slimmest chances with her, chances he knew were now completely lost, never to be found again. And whatever it was he’d felt back then… he couldn’t allow any of that now – just _look_ at what had happened the first time!

If they – Bishop quickly got hold of that thought and reshaping it; if _he_ alone was to survive this, he was going to have to quench this impulsive hunger which had surfaced at the first sight of the aasimar. If he thought of nothing but his own survival, he could manage it.

She would be as dead to him now as she’d been these past eight years. And once she was gone, he could go back to his normal life as though nothing had ever happened and he would truly be free of her forever.

Except that after they left Firanis in her room, his nostrils were still filled with the sweet scent of frozen orange lilies and marigolds and his whole body still ached to feel ghostly, tingling sensation which was her cold touch…


	11. Sonata: Unease, Spite, Error

**_Sonata_ **

 

_“We,” the woman pointed to their side, never lifting her eyes off the tray, “Have another disturbance.”_

_In billowing satin and colorless walk, another woman approached. He smiled up at her and asked, “Yes, my dear? What is it that pains you?”_

_Rather than addressing him, the newcomer turned to his companion, kneeling in submission, “Please spare him.” She pleaded, “Please—”_

_“Oh? You think it’s in my power?” One cold brow was raised and his companion nodded towards him. “Why don’t you try asking him instead?”_

_And the translucent white lady turned to him, her robes swelling and floating around her._

_His sight – tired as it was - didn’t allow him to see the true color of the newcomer’s eyes; they seemed white and transparent, like the rest of her. He was, however, able to discern the tears flooding out of them._

_And he could do nothing to stop them._

### Eleven

_Unease_

_Spite_

_Error_

 

 

“Yes, I will be fine,” Firanis tried to smile as best as she could, but she had somehow lost the strength to do it, “I… I’ll see you in the morning again, I guess.”

When the door of her bedroom closed, Firanis’s mind was still foggy and sluggish, refusing to apprehend everything which had just happened. Almost absent-mindedly she made her way to the bed and collapsed there, her limbs heavy and dormant.

It was as if her whole body wanted to sleep and never wake up.

Bishop… what was Bishop doing here in _Luskan_? Why was he working with the Zhentarim? And why Ilmater, just _why_ had he, among all of them, been chosen to guard _her_? He had not liked being her escort the first time – and by the look on his face, Firanis wagered he wasn’t too fond of repeating the task.

In her chest, her heart ached. Try as she might, Firanis had never managed to erase Bishop’s face from her memory; looking at Ilwyn had always invoked it so strongly it had been as though Bishop had been standing in front of her. True, she’d learned to avoid all the pain which had held hands with it at the beginning but still, she’d remembered and had learned to live with the fact she’d keep on doing so. It was why, upon seeing him again today, that she’d been so shocked; the image she had held of him all these years had conflicted with the changes Bishop had been through.

Those changes… they’d not been kind. Not at all.

He’d looked so haggard, so tired and worn out… Bishop had always had sharp features but now, rather than strong, they were almost angular. The hollows of his cheeks had been too pronounced, the skin around his eyes more shadowed and the line of his mouth so thin and pale…

Firanis suppressed a shiver, her breath coming out raggedly. She was _sure_ this was not supposed to be hurting so much.

But it was. It was and she wasn’t ready to cope with it. Some other time, free of all these responsibilities, with the darkness which lived inside her gone, she could have been. Not now, though, not when the mantle which was the fate of Neverwinter – or even, the _Planes_ – was draped across her shoulders.

The worst part of everything was that she really _had_ to find a way to deal with it before the confusion which was beginning to wedge her mind was fully settled. Otherwise…

Need filled her as a phantom knee brushed hers and she could almost _feel_ the hot air in the compressed carriage again, strong and masculine, begging for her to give in, and Shemal’s sly lopsided smile…

Indeed, if she couldn’t vanquish this puzzlement, this unbalance Bishop’s weak form had summoned, she was as good as gone. Because that was all the help Shemal needed to be able to call forth her darkness and _change_ her as she’d been changed when she emerged from the frozen landscapes of her soul.

_Everything’s happening again and I’m halfway into a full circle._

The only thing puzzling was that Firanis did not know if she would be able to make the right choices now.

Inwardly, she laughed. _We never really do until we make them, do we?_

However, there were two things Firanis was completely certain of. One was that Bishop could _not_ know about Ilwyn; she had to make sure of that. Although Yarija had thought Ilwyn familiar, she hadn’t commented on it so far, which meant Bishop had kept his past a secret – quite surprising considering the organization he was working for – and the ghostly looking woman was probably the most imminent threat to spill it up. Firanis couldn’t help but to feel she’d jinxed it when she was reminded of how improbable she’d labeled a meeting and subsequent co-working between Bishop and Yarija. It was almost as if she was being punished for daring to think otherwise.

First thing tomorrow, she would ask Yarija not to even mention Ilwyn and Firanis wouldn’t be lying when she said it was more for Ilwyn’s protection than her own. Only the Gods knew what would happen if these people found out about her past relationship with Bishop but the aasimar could say nothing good would come from it – especially regarding Shemal. And Ilwyn had been awfully scared of him too; considering the girl’s inane ability to see souls, Firanis couldn’t help her apprehension towards doing anything in front of him without thinking it beforehand. Yet the pull she felt towards him, the little instinct which told her she would find her answers here… those couldn’t be denied either.

As for her second sure point… When she returned to Neverwinter, there would be one very pleased Axle. When Shemal had told the man to drop his hood, Firanis had hardly believed her luck. He was the perfect embodiment of Axle’s description of the missing thief: plain looking, with a natural light-brown tone to his skin and black hair; yet his eyes were anything but ordinary. The irises had been of such a pale and iridescent green… never in her life had Firanis seen eyes so compelling as that man’s.

In fact, she hadn’t even needed to hear him speak to ascertain this was the man Axle was looking for or not. Nonetheless, when he’d said something to Yarija, it took a great deal of concentration to maintain her neutral expression. Axle had not missed the point. Rekat _did_ have the kind of voice which would make ladies swoon. It was deep, but not much, and contrary to Shemal’s, contained just a slight hint of hoarseness, making it less threatening and… more musical.

Yes, this was Axle’s thief. She was sure of it.

Her lids, which had been closed ever since she’d lain down, opened. The four poster bed was made of white wood and luxurious drapes of the same color hung from its top; her hands felt the unusually soft fur under them; moving her head to the side, she learned they were white too. She began tugging at then until they pried loose and the sheets underneath, which shone like true, untouched silk, were also white.

Abruptly, Firanis sat up. The windows, the furniture, the painting…

White, white, white… with the exception of her own clothes, everything in this room was pure _white_! And it was smothering her!

She didn’t sleep on the bed that night. As fast as she could, she threw open the balcony doors and stepped outside, the dark sky of the night a pleasurable contrast to the sight behind her. There, she sat on the marble floor and, through the empty spaces between the balustrade, stared far down, at the ruined city of Luskan.

 _At least_ , she cynically noted, _they gave me a room with a good view of the city._

A few hours later, however, she wasn’t sure if _good_ had been the right adjective for Luskan. She had seen little of her when riding the carriage with Shemal but she’d realized her state was bad. Yet now she could nearly hear…

Luskan… the city wasn’t just crying; she was in despair. 

The last thing she remembered thinking before falling asleep was, _Just… what_ is _Shemal planning to do here?_

 

 

“Yes, I will be fine,” Firanis’s voice had been as weak as her smile had been faint. “I…” she had bitten let lip in hesitation before speaking to them again, “I’ll see you the morning again, I guess.”

When Firanis had closed the door, Bishop had been unreasonably irked. In a matter of minutes, he’d moved from the utter disbelief that he was not indifferent to her to a throbbing, mindless anger. Out of the blue, she’d shown up in the middle of his aloof existence and had dragged him down to face things he hadn’t even wanted to _acknowledge_ ; and there were an awfully lot of those things, too.

So there, anger. He was thoroughly, relentlessly _angry_ because after what she had made him realize, she had not even _deigned_ to look at him again. Bishop had, more often than he’d have liked to admit, thought of a reencounter between he and Firanis, however unlikely it might be and he had deemed himself ready to face her hatred if they ever met again.

If his evaluation of himself had been accurate, he did not know. It wasn’t her hate he’d ended up facing; it was complete apathy.

Coming from a person who didn’t even ignore beggar, thieving kids, it was very offensive.

 _And_ , that little voice inside his head added, _she had never closed a door to your face._

Had he been alone, Bishop would have bashed his head against the wall. What was wrong with him? Had he actually expected that she would have remained true to him all her life even after he’d decided to leave her?

 _Yes you did; as a matter of fact, you still do_ , that little voice spoke again.

“Do we really have to watch over her constantly?” Bishop asked, hoping talking to someone would distract him from his inner monologue.

Yarija grunted, “Yes, we do. And Shemal said—”

“Why don’t you take your conversation somewhere but here?” Vasjra suddenly appeared a few steps down from them; she climbed up until she stood at the door of Firanis’s room and, by the look on her face, Bishop could tell the half-Drow was probably as annoyed as he was. “I’m going to have to stay up all night warding this room; the Princess is going nowhere.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme, even for Shemal?” Rekat asked.

Vasjra’s stare threw daggers at the thief, “If Lord Shemal thinks this is necessary, then it shall be done. It’s not _your_ place to tell whether he’s being overcautious or not.”

“I didn’t say he was being overcautious; I said he was being _extreme_ ,” Rekat corrected through clenched teeth. “Or do you think she’s going to run away?”

The half-Drow moved closer to Rekat and, standing on the tips of her toes, she domineeringly tilted her chin up, “You know nothing of her, Rekat. Just do your job and for your own sake, _hope_ you don’t fail.” At the end of each word, her index finger prodded Rekat’s chest, much to his annoyance and discomfort. “Are we clear?”

Rekat leaned down. “Perfectly,” he replied in a low, guttural mutter.

“Good,” Vasjra stepped down and away, her hand diving into her bag to produce a small stick of chalk. “Go enjoy your last night of a worry-unfettered life. I’ll bring someone down to give you the details on your assignment, so stay together.”

With a silent agreement, Bishop, Rekat and Yarija walked down the stairs to the bottom of the Hosttower. Yarija, who was slightly ahead of the two men, lifted her arms, stretching them, “Frankly, I’m surprised she didn’t get the top room,” the woman commented.

Frowning, Bishop asked, “Why would that be?” 

Yarija shrugged, “Vasjra has something for ironies; and Princesses, as she called our guest, are often locked at the tallest room of the tallest tower. Plus, she’d love to torture us by forcing us to walk all the way up every day.”

“Why is _she_ in charge anyway?” Rekat hissed.

“I don’t know,” Yarija looked at the thief from over her shoulder. “But Shemal trusts her, as far as he can trust anyone, so that’s probably it. At any rate… know of any good taverns?”

“There are no good taverns in Luskan,” Bishop said.

“No,” Rekat agreed. “Just some with clean mugs.”

Once again, Yarija gave them her ugly smirk, “Then we’re going to one of those.”

And before any of the men could disagree, she already was humping her way down the rest of the stairs.

“Well, we do have to stay together,” Rekat said, “And it’s not like we have anything better to do.”

“No,” Bishop conceded; right now, he had to find a way to keep his mind off Firanis and a couple of ale mugs were not a bad solution. “We don’t.”

 

 

Staring at the crescent moon far up in the horizon, Elanee whispered, “Do you think she did the right thing?”

“I am not sure,” Neeshka’s voice was down, different from her usual high-pitch. “But she couldn’t know without at least trying.”

“I feel like,” Elanee liked her dry lips and looked down at her intertwined hands. “I feel like we can’t help her anymore. She’s got this big destiny ahead of her and we do not have a place in it.”

“Gee, lighten up, will you?” Neeshka yawned. “Worrying like that is not going to keep things from happening if they’re meant to.”

Elanee’s eyes were so wide-open they almost seemed to be jumping out of their sockets, “How can you be so calm about this?”

“You didn’t see her talking to Axle,” Neeshka stated. “She sounded terribly focused on keeping this city safe. I don’t think we’re going to have to worry about her taking pity on anyone who’s trying to doom us.”

Elanee chuckled, “You’re only able to say that because you didn’t see her talking about Bishop!”

“He can’t be in Luskan. He hated the place” Neeshka said while furrowing her brow.

“It’s not that that I am afraid of,” the Wood elf clarified. “She thinks she can save everyone, that girl does and if there are people in dire need of salvation—”

“I know,” the tiefling agreed. “Did you see that woman? The one with the orange hair? Some Zombies I’ve seen have better looks than hers.”

“She didn’t feel like one, though,” Elanee remarked. “It may seem strange, but she was bustling; zombies have no real will but from her, there was this searing determination…”

“You’re talking as if she were an animal, Elanee.”

“It’s because the moment I laid my eyes on her, I saw her as one. She was caged, imprisoned by bindings not of her choosing and refusing to totally submit to them. She had the kind of indomitable spirit the creatures of the wild do – she probably perceives the world as they do as well.” She allowed herself a little smirk. “The spider agreed.”

“Then I’ll just say you, the spider and his owner are one strange trio,” Neeshka said. “Ilwyn is seven. Can you really trust something a girl so young and her pet spider say?”

The druidess shrugged. “They weren’t afraid of her, form what Khelgar said and the girl has a better sense of character judgment than her mother does.”

“Do you think she can really see souls?” Neeshka softly asked.

“Why not? Her mother froze down an inn – is seeing souls all that inconceivable when compared to that?”

“But you have to admit it’s not normal either.”

“No, it’s not,” Elanee concurred. “But in the world we live in… it might actually be a good thing. We all find out a person’s true nature sooner or later – that Ilwyn can see it the first time she meets someone will probably save her from a lot of trouble.”

“And broken hearts,” the tiefling added before yawning loudly. “Most of us are all weirdoes deep at heart anyway; Ilwyn probably feels right at home with us because of that.”

With a half-lidded, slow gaze, Elanee said, “No, that’s only because we’ve helped raise her. Why else would she put up with Sand?”

“Don’t look at me like that. I was raised by Priests.” Neeshka hastily held up her hands in front of her face. “Sand’s only problem is that acrid tongue of his. By the way, where is he?”

“I think he is with Ammon Jerro,” Elanee answered, “Doing Silvanus-knows-what.”

“Jerro’s probably the only one who can keep up with Sand’s sarcasm right now. Cranky old men and bitter elves tend to understand each other, don’t they?” Neeshka paused for a long, deep yawn. “I’m sorry, Firanis dragged me up early. I should probably go to bed.” Patting Elanee on the back, she said. “Don’t worry too much. Firanis will be fine.

“She’ll always end up fine.”

Elanee forced a smile out of her lips. “Yes. Goodnight, Neeshka.”

“To you as well.”

Elanee watched Neeshka leave before turning back to stare up at the sky again. No matter how much Neeshka and the others believe Firanis could come out of Luskan unscathed, she couldn’t bring herself to join them. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Firanis; she did. The aasimar’s sense of martyrdom, on the other hand…

Elanee remembered the one day Firanis had allowed Elanee a glimpse of her reasons; none of them had ever begrudged Firanis’s silence towards that particular subject – some things just hurt too much to talk about them to so many people – but they’d all wanted to know still.

Only Elanee had had her curiosity satisfied.

It had been around four or five years after they moved to Arborea. Oddly enough, Firanis had been in the kitchen and, under Elanee’s close scrutiny, had been tasked with cutting carrots. For her standards, Firanis had been doing well enough until Ilwyn, with her Spider on her shoulder, had asked _“Araga has a mom and a dad; don’t have I have a dad too?”_

Even though Firanis had stopped cutting, she didn’t look up from the carrot. Elanee had looked around at their companions – Sand and Neeshka sitting at the table, one with a parchment in front of him and the other with an armor and a sewing kit and Casavir on the floor, polishing his weapons. The heavy silence between them all had thickened the air in the room; only Elanee had been able to see how much Firanis’s hands were shaking.

 _“He left,”_ Firanis had replied without turning to look at her bewildered daughter, who wasn’t about to give up.

_“Will I see him someday?”_

Back then, Elanee had thought _“Hopefully not,_ ” and had hoped Firanis would say the same; but the aasimar didn’t. Instead, she whispered a _“Perhaps. I do not know.”_

Firanis had still not turned and just as Ilwyn was about to go on, Casavir had risen up and taken her by the hand, _“Come, Ilwyn. Let’s go outside. You know how your mother needs to concentrate while she’s cutting vegetables – or do you want those giant carrot circles in your stew again?”_

Ilwyn had left with the Paladin then and Firanis, after a long pause, had resumed her duty. Elanee didn’t know if Casavir had said anything else to Ilwyn after that, but the girl never asked about her father again.

Late that night, when everyone had retired to bed, the druid was alone with Firanis, the fire cackling in front of them.

 

_“If you want to ask, Elanee, just do it,” Firanis suddenly said._

_Instantly, she knew what they were talking about._

_“Why did you answer her like that?” Elanee raised her eyebrows, struck with the hardness of the aasimar’s voice._

_“Because it was the truth. He_ did _leave me and I don’t know whether or not Ilwyn will ever meet him.”_

_“I certainly hope she doesn’t,” Elanee muttered under her breath._

_“Why?”_

_She recognized a hint of amazement in Firanis’s voice and was intrigued by it. Could she…? “Isn’t it obvious? After what he’s done to you, I certainly think it’s best if Ilwyn never knows how much of a broken man he is.”_

_Firanis_ humpfed _almost humorously, “He’s only broken because he wishes to be so. As for what he’s done to me… it was what he thought best. If it’s worked out for him or not, I cannot be certain, but…” she lowered her voice, smiling sadly. “I hope it has.”_

 _Hearing those words from Firanis were like getting a full bucket of water emptied on top of your head and before Elanee could stop it, she was wide-eyed and whispering_ , _“For the Gods… You loved him. You’re in love with him still.”_

_Firanis bit her lower lip, but did not reply. Elanee looked at the fire for a while, silence hanging between them; when she looked at Firanis again, there were tears rolling down the aasimar’s cheeks, but Elanee did not make any move to comfort the other woman; she, herself, was becoming painfully aware that Firanis was being torn apart by her own words, and any try to shush them would only make them go inside again, only to be bottled until they burst out… like the deaths of her closest friends._

_“A person is shaped in the way the world treats her,” Firanis quietly said after a sob. “Give her love, and she will be able to show that same love to everyone she meets; she will be able to see qualities where others only see faults, and she will embrace those qualities and help them hone so they will grow over the defects.” She stopped, her nails digging fiercely into the skin of her knees, her tone changing to an angry spat as her voice was raised to speak again. “But give her hate, despise her with all you have, constantly remind her that she is not_ needed _, much less wanted, and she will grow to be the most despicable being ever… because she never came to know any other feelings._

_“And when you meet someone whose soul has been already twisted by so much abhorrence, you want to avoid them as well. But guess what? That person is forced into traveling with you; so, you get to trade a few words, save his ass a few times, have your own ass saved by that person a few times as well, and in the end, when you’re quietly alone, you feel brave enough to ask him a few questions.”_

_Firanis’s voice lowered dramatically. “And that is when you realize there is something beneath the despicable façade he uses and begin wondering if there’s a way you’ll ever see under the mask.”_

_The aasimar breathed in as if to calm herself down. “Then you meet his former girlfriend; Gods, she badmouths him so much, but there has to be some truth to her claims – even though you don’t want to believe it. You ask him about it and he not only confirms, he says he doesn’t give a damn about it. But he also lies a lot and there’s something inside you which tells you that he_ _is_ _lying about not caring. Thus, you let the matter rest… for the time being._

_“Time passes and things happen.”_

_The way she said that sentence froze Elanee to the bone and the sideways glance accompanied by it made her hair stand on its ends._

_“There’s something which threatens your life greatly – and, against all odds,_ he _offers to step up for you. But you don’t let him because… you don’t want him to suffer anymore. He’s had enough and you fear that if he gets more hurt because of you, you’ll never strip him of his perpetual disguise. So you decline and he, knowing you so well, slaps a knife –_ his _knife – onto your hands and barely says “drop to the right and thrust up”._

_“For a reason, his touch made your skin tingle; his voice echoed on your ears; the realization of how close his mouth was to yours made your legs wobbly. But you can’t think about that for long because you have a battle ahead of you, but feel strangely safe only by having him watching you.”_

_“And, when your enemy closes up on you, there is nowhere to run. So, knowing nothing else, you drop to the right and thrust up; by chance, you happen to deliver a fatal blow to him, thus winning the combat.” A ghost of a smile rose on Firanis’s lips. “And you are so grateful to him that all you want is to squeeze the air out of him with a tight embrace… But you don’t, because he’s no longer there. You don’t mind it, though; you know he hates public commotions and know where he’ll be later._

_“You meet him again, of course and, after that battle, the sight of him makes your heart sink; his words are cold and brisk, but the way he looks at you betrays them; and it’s the first time you see his mask drop. Suddenly, you long to be close to him, to touch him, to kiss him; the distance nearly kills you and so, you sit on his lap. He freezes for a while and so do you, but the cold –_ _all_ _the cold – starts vanishing the moment he hesitantly lays a hand on your hip in a semi-embrace._

_“You kiss him. It’s not really a kiss; more like a brush of the lips, really. But the way he gives in, the way he kisses you back sends sparks through your body; when those sparks become fire, his kiss recedes. You don’t know why; he’s the most cruel, selfish person you know, so why won’t he take you right there and then?”_

_Firanis closed her eyes serenely, remembering the moment. “And then you look into his eyes, dig as deep as you can, and learn, much to your surprise, that he cares… and that there will be no one else your heart will take.”_

_A couple of tears fell from her eyes. “He was the only one who felt it, the only one who understood how cold it really was for me. And,” she gulped while looking at the wall in front of her, “I wanted to give him a chance. I wanted_ him _to see that he was not doomed; Elanee, I wanted him to stop rebuking himself because of things he’d done and pretended not to care about; I wanted him to start_ respecting _himself, no matter how shady or cruel his past had been, because that lack of self-love is what made him be the way he is.”_

_Firanis paused before continuing. “I don’t know if it’s love, Elanee, but I do know that I’ve never felt this way before… It’s like-” she sniffed; when her tears fell again, they were accompanied by a pained smile. “It’s like I am drowning, but I don’t mind it - in fact, I think I like the lack of air; it’s like a blindfold on your eyes, but it’s a blindfold I’ve put there myself; it’s like standing on edge of an abyss and still want to step forward. And the cold… when he looked at me, the cold got weaker, and wherever he touched me, it burned. If this is love, Elanee, then I didn’t want to love him… I really didn’t. But when I came to my senses, he and I were so deeply intertwined, that I could no longer go back. ”_

_Elanee’s heart skipped a beat. How could she, no, how could_ anyone _feel that way about_ Bishop? _How could anyone willingly_ _care_ _for him even though the outcome of such affection meant only pain?_

 _“And you know what is the worst of it?” Firanis leaned back on her chair, gazing into the druid’s eyes. “The worst of it is that I think the feeling was not unrequited. It might have been cast aside, shunned, buried… but it was there. Once, it was_ there _.”_

 

Elanee hadn’t dared to touch the same subject after that. She’d simply been too afraid of what she might hear.

It had been exactly what Zhjaeve had said right after they’d arrived Mertion after defeating the King of Shadows. _“Even with everything that was said and done, she did not doubt him; hence I do not doubt him. Do you?”_

That day, Elanee hadn’t; Firanis’s life had been at stake after all and to save her, she’d have believed the impossible. But afterwards? She couldn’t help but to do exactly the contrary.

After all, it took a very selfish, close-minded, self-absorbed kind of man to do what Bishop had done.

She began walking towards the forest, away from the city walls. Naloch had left to walk amidst the familiar trees and hadn’t come back yet. And Elanee herself needed to feel back home as well – so why not go search for her animal companion?

Yet it wasn’t Naloch who she found.

It was Casavir. 

Almost gingerly, the wood elf called out the Paladin’s name. While they’d been at Crossroad Keep, Casavir hadn’t been given to walk its wilds, like Elanee had so, at first, she’d found it strange to see him here. But perhaps being in Arborea for so long had changed him.

“I could not clear my head inside the city,” his explanation came unbidden. “That is why I am here.”

Until Elanee had not reached his side, neither of them spoke.

“We are probably the only ones moping around like this,” the druidess pointed out in a mellow tone. 

“Indeed,” Casavir said. “I know she’s her own woman, Elanee, but I can’t help this worry from nagging at me. And when everyone else is so convinced that she’ll be able to overcome whatever awaits her there, I cannot… it makes me feel lacking somewhat.”

“It’s almost as if we’re the only ones who haven’t forgotten her weaknesses,” Elanee stated.

“Or the only ones lacking a goal to drive us,” The Paladin confessed. “Everyone else is so busy doing _something_ Firanis told them to, it’s no wonder they do not doubt her. I even passed through Ammon, Sand and the tiefling girl on my way here.” In a rare display of anger, Casavir kicked a small stone. Elanee widened her eyes at him, silently questioning and, upon noticing her befuddled expression, Casavir sighed. “Why do you think we were the only ones left hanging?”

“I—” Elanee held her hands behind her back, thinking back to find a reasonable answer to Casavir’s rightfully placed question. Khelgar was not in the Temple of Tyr, concentrating in his Monk duties; Neeshka would closely be working with Nasher’s current spymaster and Grobnar with the Lord’s Bards; of Zhjaeve, she knew nothing, albeit the Githzerai’s absence most likely meant she had a task of her own as well; as for Ammon Jerro and Sand… together with Tyavain, they were probably devising something unthinkable right now. She recalled what had happened when Jerro and the girl only had mingled at the Keep and it had been… unstable. Adding Sand to the group would probably cause in some Alchemical explosion somewhere in Neverwinter.

Which left her and Casavir. In the middle of her warm goodbyes, Firanis had asked _nothing_ of them. And now that they were home, they could have helped her so much more—

_“Kind of reminds you of Skymirror, right?”_

The flicker in Firanis’s smile flashed before Elanee’s eyes, along with that memory. It had been so long ago – almost eight years, in fact – that the druidess had said those words! And she’d never forgotten how Firanis had wavered upon hearing them either. The aasimar had _wanted_ them to be happy, Elanee knew, and at the time, Firanis had thought she was keeping them trapped in a place they did not want to be in when, in fact, they’d chosen to stay; but Firanis would only learn that not days, but _years_ later, would she not?

“I think,” Elanee whispered. “That she didn’t want neither of us to be bound to her anymore. Neeshka, Khelgar, Sand… all of the others would have ended up doing something like they’re doing and even now… they _chose_ to do those things on top of many others. But as for you and me? She knew I missed the Mere – and I do – so she didn’t want to place any bindings on me before she left. I think she meant the same for you.” Elanee took a deep breath, turning so she was facing Casavir squarely. “We’ll do what we have to do first; after that, if we still want it… we’ll find a way to help her.”

The Paladin took in a breath and looked up at the moon. _Acceptance_ , Elanee felt, _He’s accepting it._ “You may be right. But I’ll still worry about her.” Casavir declared.

At that, Elanee couldn’t contain her smile. “Don’t worry. We will worry together.”

And they did.

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, to our demotion,” Rekat announced, raising his mug of ale before taking it to his mouth. Bishop mimicked him, a forceful smirk placed upon his lips. Rekat just didn’t even fathom how right he was.

With a sigh, the thief continued, “Bodyguard duty… not even in my darkest times did I succumb to—”

“Pardon my interrupting your woes, Rekat.” Yarija waved her glass forward in a cutting motion. “But I don’t think it was a demotion; quite the contrary, as a matter-of-fact.”

Rekat snorted, “Care to explain?”

Yarija breathed in, eyes narrowed as though she was choosing her words carefully. “Shemal… wants something from her. Somehow, she’s so important to him that he’s willing to stall the Shadow thief sabotage just to ensure she doesn’t run.”

Bishop arched a brow. Rekat frowned. “So he leaves two grown adult men guarding a pretty comely woman? Where’s the logic in that?”

 _Exactly_ , Bishop agreed in his mind. it wouldn't have been a _threat_ from Shemal which would have stopped him from jumping her – however dark and true that threat might be.

Much to his surprise, Yarija grinned with genuine amusement and Bishop had to slam his eyes shut at the hideousness of the expression. He still didn’t know what was wrong with Yarija – and truth be told, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. She was dark, much too dark for someone her age…

“But Rekat.” Her voice disrupted his contemplation. “Who better than a master of hide and seek to prevent her from running, an expert in weapons to take her down if she manages to _and_ a ranger to track her down just in case we’re beaten?” Then she nonchalantly leaned back, a short giggle escaping her lips. “Not to mention the probability of either of us touching what’s so precious to Shemal is minimal.”

At this, Bishop couldn’t help but croak a, “What!?”

“Well.” Yarija held up her fingers and began counting. “One, I’m just not into women, unlike Vasjra and Kalyt. Everyone knows Rekat will only settle for Aniel – oh, Rekat, _stop_. The only lie there is about you and Aniel is the one you were just about to say. And you, Bishop… Well, you haven’t got laid in eight years and when a single, thirty five year old man doesn’t do it for that long…” Yarija let the sentence hang incomplete in midair for a while as she dramatically tilted her neck to the side. “Really, Bishop, can you even _do_ it?”

After that question, all the ranger could do was stare at Yarija’s deadpan face. Then, he expressively muttered, “What the hell? What does that have to do with anything?”

Yarija shook her head, “Seriously, Bishop—”

“ _Rekat_ has never got laid either!”

Rekat pointed a finger at him. “I’m not a valid point.”

“Yeah, he wants Aniel,” Yarija quickly silenced an open-mouthed Rekat before he could even speak, “– and _stop_ saying you don’t because we all know you do! As for you Bishop,” She shrugged. “We’ve seen nothing. And we see everything.”

The ranger sighed. “Maybe I just haven’t met someone interesting yet.”

“Maybe,” Yarija gave in. “But it’s still strange.”

Then, just as Bishop turned to Rekat to force an agreement out of him if necessary, he went still. The other man… at first he’d been wearing a pensive frown on his face, almost as if he was digging up some lost memory; it was only for a few moments, however. His face had now gone completely slack and he wasn’t staring at Bishop anymore but rather past him…

Bishop turned around and, wearing the most sinful clothes and a black veil draped over her shoulders, was Aniel. It explained Rekat’s dumb-struck face. As much as they knew Aniel was rotten on the inside, her exterior more than made up for it – and really, who could condemn her for being thoroughly broken? Everyone here was, one way or the other. But still, after all these years, Bishop hadn’t been able to figure out how come Rekat had been swept up with Aniel. The thief was actually somewhat sane and you’d think his survival instincts would have kept him safe from the half-succubus, no matter how strikingly delectable she was.

“So it is true,” Aniel sounded awed. “Shemal _did_ bring you three back to take care of the pretty princess.”

Taking in her words, Rekat breathed in. He had thought that with the last dream he’d had of her, he would have been able to handle meeting Aniel.

He’d been wrong. So dreadfully, thoroughly _wrong_ …

Big olive eyes, striking diamond-shaped face, small nose, pale and perfect skin… Not a single mole or freckle to taint it. When she met his gaze, Rekat could’ve sworn her spine straightened almost uncomfortably – but then she smiled, that beautiful, perfect smile that left visible a glimpse of straight pearly white teeth.

It was as if the ground shifted beneath his feet… How could he have forgotten how beautiful Aniel was in the first place?

Perhaps being separated from her for so long had left him vulnerable to her charms; perhaps it was just that the thin aura of power which had surrounded her was now stronger, surrounding her in a nearly tangible veil of pure, enticing seduction; or perhaps it was just Aniel being Aniel. Whichever it was… it made Aniel more beautiful than he remembered.

And that veil… he recognized it. It was the one he’d given her. That she still had it, that she was _wearing_ it made his heart jump and skip in something akin to satisfaction and relief.

Yarija raised her mug at the other woman, “We’re babysitters now – aren’t you jealous?”

Rekat sensed Yarija’s question had been a bait and was surprised to find himself quite pestered by it.

Aniel, however, shrugged it off, “No, not really; people like her just piss me off, with all their high and mighty attitudes.”

“You’re going to have to put up with Vasjra and Felippa, though,” Yarija smirked before sipping her ale. “I’d take a hundred of Sir Nevalles over those two any day.”

The half-succubus rolled her eyes, “At least with Vasjra and her acolyte I don’t have to evade any sermons. And speaking of the Princess,” then she lowered her face and her voice became a whisper. “I heard even Ethlinn is coming to see her.”

Rekat nearly spat his ale, “The _Thayan_?”

“And Neire, too,” Aniel raised a dubious eyebrow at him. “Why’s it that you’re so upset anyway?”

“Because, Aniel, Ethlinn’s a spiteful little bitch who’s moodier than an angry ox, pickier than a wild mare, more poisonous than a viper and has a taste which is more putrid than a vulture’s.”

Aniel’s full lips split in a broad grin. “I recall you saying the same thing about Shemal, Rekat and he never did anything _that_ upsetting.”

“Yeah, sending you to whore yourself to a Paladin is just light stuff,” Yarija deliberately looked at the ceiling as she spoke under her breath.

This time, Aniel didn’t let the insult pass freely by; she placed both hands on the table and leaned forward so that her nose was almost brushing Yarija’s. “Why, jealous it wasn’t you?”

“Are you joking? I wouldn’t even get the little itch you half-demons always have when you’re around holy auras.” Baring her teeth, Yarija acquired a nearly feral expression. “But I suppose that comes in handy, doesn’t it? Helps you fake it better—”

Aniel gave a little, humorless laugh, “Yarija, not even an Incubus would be able to make you enjoy it.”

Suppressing a grimace, Rekat willed Yarija to let the matter drop. He had _known_ about what Aniel had been doing these past three years - hells, he’d _seen_ her doing it for nearly five. And he knew now as well that whoever said _Time heals all wounds_ was a flat-out liar. Whenever someone mentioned Aniel’s little jobs, it was painful – so painful that once, he’d even punched a wall with his bare knuckles to get his mind off it – only to find his fractured hand had been a lesser blow than the thought of Aniel together with a very alive Paladin.

Rekat wondered if he’d done the right thing when he’d choose to leave Aniel without explaining. But how can you tell someone you’re going to walk away on them just because you cannot trust yourself around them? Because that, along with the awareness that to make her happy he would even _die_ , had been what had happened.

Self-perseverance had been his forte in his early years; it was one of the reasons he’d left the Shadow Thieves for the Zhentarim. And Aniel had just come and destroyed his precious little defense mechanism. That night, he had finally realized that – and it was why he’d left her, aching and needing. Not even the look she gave him as he walked away on her had demoted Rekat from his newfound quest to restore his survival instincts again.

And he thought he’d succeeded. But here she was, visibly embittered and stronger and all he could remember of that last glance they’d shared was how betrayed she’d looked. So much for saying he’d been over her.

When Yarija didn’t speak, Aniel arched a brow, “No rebuttal? Then we can get to our business, shall we?” She pulled out the only empty seat on the table – the one next to Bishop – and turned it around; she sat and leaned forward, her crossed arms at the top of the back of the chair and her legs thrown around the bottom of it.

Bishop slapped his forehead in what could only be exasperation. “Please don’t tell me Vasjra was talking about you.”

“Don’t be like that, Bishop; we’ll be seeing a lot of each other after all,” Aniel sweetened her voice and patted him in the arm and Bishop threw her a glare which could only be described as murderous. Suppressing a thoroughly unexplainable wave of jealousy, Rekat noted the ranger had been unusually edgy ever since Shemal had arrived today and Rekat could only assume it was due to their new playmate; he himself was not quite the enthusiast towards guarding someone twenty-four hours a day.

“Why is that?” Yarija was the one who asked; she had been the only one who’d not yet showed any objections towards keeping an eye on Firanis but she appeared displeased with what Aniel had implied.

The half-succubus gave the other woman a lopsided smile, “With all the trouble Shemal’s going through by keeping her here and safely so, you think he wouldn’t throw in a food taster?”

It was Rekat’s turn to protest, “You know nothing of food tasting, Aniel!” he exclaimed, regretting he’d sounded so… afraid.

The thief gripped the handle of his mug tighter. With the kind of lives they lead, it was a wonder she hadn’t died but he couldn’t muster the logic right now. Why was he suddenly so afraid it could happen to Aniel?

Aniel looked at him with those big olive eyes of hers and, for a moment, she seemed to be asking herself the same question. Her lips parted as though she was going to answer him and him only – but then her chest inflated with a deep breath and her stare hardened, “You seem to be forgetting I am an assassin, Rekat. I won’t be risking my life any more than usual; breathing all those fumes while concocting different poisons has made me resistant to all of them – I’ve even grown immune to some.”

“Shemal’s surely covering all his bases, it seems,” Yarija exhaled. “I wonder what the Nine plans on doing while she’s here.”

“About that… Shemal said she’s _supposed_ to see the city and we’re to provide whatever she requests,” Aniel responded.

“A guest and not a prisoner, huh?” said Yarija.

“What _is_ his interest in her anyway?” Rekat grunted.

“Like I know,” spoke Aniel. “Whether he wants to eat her alive or simply kill her, we have to obey him.”

Rekat saw the strangest look cross Bishop’s face, then but he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was exactly. Deciding it was probably nothing, he went on, “What else is there to this?”

Aniel threw her shoulders back, rolling them in the process; as natural as the movement was on anyone else, Aniel made it look like a languid, sensuous promise. It was impossible not to follow and admire every single part of her involved in the mundane act, from the slight ripple of muscle to the arching of her back to the gentle backwards curving of her neck…

It was only when Yarija kicked him that Rekat became aware Aniel had begun speaking already.

 

 

“Whoever you are – I am _not_ selling this house. I’m so rarely in the city nowadays – why is that people _always_ show up whenever I come by?”

“Aldanon?” Tyavain shouted. “Aldanon, it’s Tyavain! I already have got a house in Blacklake, what makes you think I’d want yours too?”

The nagging old man tone was gone, replace by one of pleasant surprise. “Little Tyavain?” the front door slid open to reveal the same eccentric old man Sand and Ammon had known. He stepped forward, exchanging a sound hug with the tiefling. “It _is_ you! Look at how you’ve grown! You should be chasing after those young nobles who hound my house, not after me! Maybe if they were to become too busy with you, they’d leave this old man to his work?”

“Actually, Aldanon.” Tyavain took a step backwards. “We need your help.”

The old man frowned. “I’m sorry, have we met? Your faces seem familiar to me…”

“They are Firanis’s friends, remember? From Crossroad Keep?” Tyavain said.

“I had thought I’d left this life behind,” Sand muttered under his breath. “Even the girl is _sane_ next to him.”

“Yes, _surprisingly_ so,” Ammon agreed. “We’ll have to ask her about that after.”

“Oh, indeed, I remember now! The Mage too busy playing with his bottles and taking all the interesting books of the library to his own room! And Ammon Jerro. Why are you here?”

“We need to know how to find the missing pieces of the Silver Sword of Gith,” Tyavain replied before tugging at his sleeve. “Say, Aldanon… is that gingerbread I smell?”

“Gingerbread?” Aldanon sniffed the air. “You are right. It’s curious, I _clearly_ remember asking for oatmeal cookies.”

He left a smiling Tyavain and two aghast Ammon Jerro and Sand standing at the entrance. Seconds after, they heard a muffled “But do come in!” from the inside. As they entered the house, Tyavain took in a deep breath and whispered, “Once, when I was very small, my mother gave me this bit of still warm gingerbread cookie. The way it smelled and tasted… I was so awed that for a moment, all my mind could perceive were not the taints, but that wondrous, elated flavor of gingerbread cookies. It’s the first real memory I have.”

“Is that why you’re not half-lost?” Sand asked. “The smell of gingerbread?”

“It’s why I am more lucid, yes. The taints cannot touch the feelings they do not understand and to them, the concept of _mother_ is as unknown as true peace of mind is for me.” The tiefling explained. “They’re but whispers now and my own voice speaks louder than them but were I in a crisis? Not even a Palace worth of Gingerbread cookies would make me sane.”

“Little memories can only ease little pains,” Jerro offered.

“Yes,” Tyavain acquiesced. “They do.”

Aldanon returned, two maids tailing behind him. They set a couple of porcelain mugs, a steaming teapot and a large tray on the table before bowing to leave. “Oh, I’m sorry – two mugs only; I didn’t remember there were four of us.” Aldanon sat after pouring himself a bit of the tea.

“Typical,” mumbled Sand.

“Be nice, Mister Sand,” Tyavain admonished before joining the master of the house. “Peppermint tea?” she asked as she filled the remaining cup. “It’s been so long, Aldanon – I’m surprised you remembered.”

“As if I could forget the only way to calm down the shrieking child who showed up in my front lawn years ago. And you kept on showing, too – didn’t your mother let you eat sweets at home?”

Ammon Jerro and Sand exchanged a look. For a man like Aldanon to remember something which had happened that long ago, Tyavain’s little show on his doorstep must’ve been quite memorable indeed.

Tyavain blew on her tea before sipping it. “You had prettier books here and always gave me cookies when I came over – how could I _not_ show up here every now and then?” A bite out of a gingerbread cookie made Tyavain stop, her young face filling with exquisite contentment. “At any rate… Misters Sand and Jerro, along with myself, wanted to ask you a some questions about the pieces of the Silver Sword.”

“Why?”

“We need to re-forge it,” tired, Ammon Jerro impatiently barged into Tyavain and Aldanon’s private little conversation which was going far too slow than he would have liked it to. “In order to do that, we need to find the remaining pieces.”

“How can we do it, Aldanon?” Tyavain asked, her thin fingers reaching out to seize yet another cookie.

“I may have something, yes… but where?” Aldanon frowned, fingering his chin. With his free hand, he moved to grab a cookie and, just as he did, Tyavain’s skin brushed against his. It was almost imperceptible, as though the world suddenly changed and became as clear as her light blue eyes…

“Please remember it,” she whispered in a voice which both was and wasn’t hers. It was sounded far more ancient than she could ever be, echoing, strong, firm wispy…

The girl had always left that itchy sensation on his mind whenever she’d come… and he could not forget her.

“I know where it is…” the man said, his voice vague, before he made his way out of the room and upstairs.

Sighing, Tyavain leaned back, devouring an entire cookie with a single bite; then another and another. As she ate all the Gingerbread in the tray, Sand felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling; he looked at Ammon Jerro, but the warlock, unlike himself, didn’t appear to even be feeling the faintest trace of surprise.

The moon elf had known the girl was powerful, but to such an amount…

To be able to dig deep into someone’s mind to fish out what she wanted… Tyavain hadn’t abused her powers, true; she’d merely brushed Aldanon’s thoughts and had made this whole ordeal a lot quicker and easier but who was able to say she’d remain unobtrusive?

He no longer saw the little girl he’d scryed ages ago. In her place there was someone who could be unpredictable, mad and ultimately strong.

In her place there was something _dangerous_.

 

 

It was around five in the morning that Yarija realized she was not going to catch any sleep that night. After a long time of fruitless efforts, she threw back her covers and leapt out of the bed, walking towards the mirror. She uncovered it and stood still, looking at the familiar face on the other side.

She hadn’t always been like that, had she?

Try as she might, Yarija couldn’t remember if her exterior had ever been any different; all the times she’d felt close to dusting off something, the image fled, fragmenting like broken, dirty glass.

At any rate, the appearance she might have had in the past did not matter in the present. Good looks weren’t part of her job at all and even if she had them… those damned scars Shemal had given her would surely have rendered them useless anyway. No one wanted to look at a branded girl not, did they?

She heard the rustling of feathers at her window; Yarija didn’t even have to turn to know what was there, perched on her windowsill. She was making every effort to ignore the damned beast, willing it to go away; the feathers ruffled again and just as she thought she had won, it began screaming for attention like a scorned child who’d just been refused her mother’s warm embrace.

Yarija let out an irritated breath and, resigned, focused on the hawk at her window, “ _What_?” She bellowed. “Aren’t you supposed to be unwaveringly faithful towards your companion?”

The bird opened its beak in an almost squeamish noise and Yarija cursed herself a hundred times over for spoiling the damned thing. How had she been supposed to know it was going to take the dead rat she’d found in her room as a present?

“Go hunt,” she commanded.

The hawk only screamed louder. She had to admit even though she hated the animal, it was quite a resilient, persistent and patient thing.

“Go. Hunt,” She repeated. “The Gods know you need it, fat bird that you are.”

The second those words left Yarija’s mouth, she regretted them; if the hawk had been a child moments before, now it was a woman during a middle-age crisis. Why did this have to happen to her of all people? As if she wasn’t sunk in enough troubles already…

“Fine!” Yarija finally gave up, letting go of the piece of fabric she was still holding on to and offering her shoulder. “Come.”

 _If this goes on,_ Yarija grimaced when the hawk’s talons contently dug deep into her naked flesh. _I’ll have to buy a harness. Stupid bird!_

She stomped her way down the stairs of the Hosttower she’d been placed into and, after a surprised glance from the guard stationed at its entrance, kicked the door open and violently stepped outside.

Thirty minutes later, while Yarija was contemplating one very happy hawk gorging in two fat rats, she realized, much to her dismay, that she had not eaten since yesterday’s breakfast.

Why exactly had she insisted so much on drinking ale last night rather than eating?

Oh, that was right. Aniel had showed up before she’d had the chance to order something to chew on other than concerns; afterwards… thinking of food had nearly made her sick.

Meeting with Aniel had always left an acrid taste of bile in Yarija’s mouth for days. And, over the course of the years, it seemed the little fact had not changed.

At first, Yarija had thought she could not stand the other woman because Aniel was so unrealistically beautiful but it had not been that. True, Yarija had wanted – still wanted, in fact – to know the sensation of making a man fall at her feet with a single look and Aniel had been the first person Yarija saw _doing_ it – but that had not been it.

Then she’d asked herself if it could be because the assassin was taking the only person Yarija had ever thought of as a brother away only to discard him later and it still hadn’t been the right answer; after all, knowing Rekat the way she did, he _probably_ was to blame for their estrangement as well. And it couldn’t be because Aniel was a bad person because Kalyt was a whole lot worse and wasn’t capable of making Yarija sick the way Aniel did.

Then, she’d met Firanis and the little girl and her reply had come.

With Ilwyn, Yarija had felt those explosive, uncontrollable feelings in her cool down to a moment she could almost think without being clouded by them. Like the girl had crooned a lullaby and all the inherent darkness Yarija often saw in herself was put down to sleep.

And Aniel… Aniel somehow _fueled_ them. Yarija did not know why or how, but the half-succubus made everything Yarija wanted to subdue come alive and catch fire.

“Scoi!” came a smooth voice behind her. The hawk at Yarija’s shoulder cocked its head and, firming its talons even deeper into her flesh, propelled itself upwards to join the newcomer.

Frowning her dismay, Yarija pivoted to stare at Brian in the face. “You named your hawk _Scoi_?”

“Actually, it is Scoithniamh, but it takes too long to say the entire first name,” the man corrected. “And we don’t name the animals; they already have their own names.”

“I could care less about the animals’ naming history, Brian.” Yarija said, her tone low and edgy. “What I am concerned about is that you’re not feeding that stupid bird of yours and now he never lets me sleep at night unless I give him food!”

Brian glanced at the bird sideways, then back at Yarija. “You cannot feed her; she’s supposed to hunt.”

“Then why don’t you just tell her—” Yarija came to an abrupt halt, her mouth hanging open in midsentence. “Your hawk is a _she_?”

“Why, of course,” Brian’s voice remained inflectionless. “Why would it be a he? Both Scoithniamh and Hasna'Salimah are females.”

“But... she’s so big.”

“Goshawk females are much larger than males. Which is why they are such fabulous predator birds,” said Brian. “Yet you’ve been feeding her. If anything it explains why she both likes you and has grown so fat.”

Yarija balled her hands into fists, angry that he was accusing her of something she’d been trapped into doing. “I told her to go hunt but she wouldn’t stop screaming until I fed her. How was I supposed to sleep with that mad oversized chicken clucking all the night?”

“You barely sleep at night anyway; why not spare a few minutes calling me to come pick Scoi up rather than running around the city like a maniac?”

Yarija did not know which one of the two enraged her so much: that Brian was criticizing her or that he’d done so in a completely flat tone. Her sight was a mist of red as she approached him in large steps, nose and forehead wrinkled in what she knew to be a very ugly expression.

“If you’re going to insult and threaten me, Brian,” Yarija snarled, “then at least put some feeling into it.”

Unlike many others upon seeing her nightmarish face up close, Brian did not step back. He stood face-to-face with her, his gaze as cool as hers was heated. Yarija thought she saw him frown, but if it did indeed happen, it was so fast her eyes were barely able to register it.

Yarija felt a stabbing pain at the back of her skull and the uncoiling of tendrils on her stomach as their little confrontation remained the same. The skin at her back split and moved and the familiar trails of blood it usually caused began to make their descent down her back. In a moment of weakness, she backed out, barely having time to turn her back to Brian as her knees gave in and she retched foul-tasting bile.

Something brushed the hair from her face as the accursed wave of nausea continued; she felt a soft touch on her shoulder, where the infinites spun and her skin numbed and a hand drying her face from her tears. For a scarce second, Yarija thought it had been Brian but when she finally managed to collect herself and stepped to the side to lean against her building, he was still in the same place he’d been before her seizure.

“ _What_?” she snapped at him, angry that she was so weak, angry that he’d seen her—

“You remind me of her, Yarija,” Brian wistfully interrupted her mental cursing while fingering the hawk beneath its beak. “It’s because of your eyes, I think; they have the same color as Scoi’s but your resemblances go far beyond that. Primal, raw and uncontrolled – you feel as she does and are always scanning your surroundings for a possible prey to your emotions.

“You, Yarija, are a predator bird. But, unlike Scoithniamh… you have not been overfed.”

The rightfulness of that statement drove a dagger so deep that until the sun rose up, Yarija did not have the will to react to it. 

 

 

“Sleeping on the veranda,” Torio _tsked_ , leaning slightly to the side as a servant poured her a cup of tea. “I had thought you’d killed that habit of yours.”

“Looks like I haven’t,” Firanis said dryly before shoving her fork into her mouth.

“I can’t blame you, though. With a room like that, even a celibate priest would have felt uneasy.” The Ambassador lifted a carefully trimmed brow. “Don’t tell me he thinks you’re a virgin.”

From where she sat, Firanis could see Rekat, a shoulder casually slanted against the wall; he tipped his hooded head downwards and Firanis felt a slight trace of amusement emanating from him. Yarija was sitting nearby on the floor, back slumped against the same wall; she’d been so weak ever since Firanis had met her that morning, the aasimar wasn’t disturbed when all the other woman did was half-open her black eyelids. As for Bishop… Firanis was glad she could not see him.

In this matter, she had to tread carefully.

 “Trying to bait fish so early in the morning, Torio?” The aasimar smiled as though she was indifferent to the matter.

“I heard it’s when they bite more,” Torio replied, sipping her nonchalant tea. Taunting, she added, “Will this one?” afterwards.

 _And she’s supposed to be on our side…_ Firanis grumbled to herself. “Shemal knows I am no longer… ah, untouched.”

“For it to be that obvious, you must have had one earth-shattering lover,” Torio hadn’t looked at her plate rather than at Firanis when she’d said that, her voice a dragging, low whisper.

 _Or squeezed a child out of my womb._ She was glad she’d already talked to Yarija regarding mentioning Ilwyn’s existence to those who were oblivious of it; that Yarija had agreed with Firanis’s worries only added to her relief. The ghostly woman… she really had been impressed with Ilwyn and that feeling, that tug Firanis had felt at first towards trusting Yarija had seemed to have increased in response.

And even if she was going to reveal her little secret to Torio… this was not the time to do it, so she might as well give the Ambassador the answer she wanted to hear. She leaned forward with a mischievous glint in her eyes and whispered, “You have _no idea_.”

Torio laughed quietly. “This is so much better than the last time we threw bouts at each other.”

“I don’t know. Having my life on the line sort of gave an edge to it.” Firanis nibbled at the piece of omelet staked in her fork. “Remind me again what I’m supposed to do with you today?”

“Listen to me briefing you on Luskan?”

“Just that?”

The spoon of strawberry jam Torio had just rammed on a loaf of bread was pointed at Firanis. “You say that now,” she took a bite out of the sweetened bread and chewed it slowly before continuing, “Only because you have absolute no grasp on what this place has become.”

“Is it more than despaired?” Firanis inquired.

“Despair?” Torio placed her elbows on the table laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them. “Firanis, Luskan is well _beyond_ simple despair.”

“How so?”

“Despair implies you still care about where you’re ending up whereas what’s going on here… it’s resignation. People have fallen so far, they’re conformed with the monsters they have become.”

“No other place occupied by the Zhentarim has ever been like this.” Rekat’s voice made Firanis jut on her chair. “Obviously, there’s no profit for us here – why haven’t we given up on Luskan yet?”

“It’s not like _I_ can ask Shemal that now, can I?” Torio’s eyes narrowed down to slits as she stared sideways at the thief.

“Not if you value your life, no,” Yarija backed the Ambassador up; her voice was as tired as she looked. “But I can assure you, Rekat, that if we haven’t left, then it’s because Shemal _is_ taking something from this place.”

“I fail to see what,” the thief said.

“And you think he gives a damn?” Yarija snickered. “When it comes to Shemal, all we need to know is that, if we want to live, his wishes are a creed we have to adhere to. It’s as simple as that.”

“You sure know a lot for someone who’s presumably left in the dark,” Firanis commented.

The smile Yarija gave her stirred something deep inside the aasimar. All wrong… Yarija was all wrong… The dimples on her cheeks did not match those dark, twisted lips of hers and the corners of her eyes did not crinkle in harmony… “Darkness sees better in the dark, wouldn’t you agree?”

 _She is_ smart, Firanis realized. _Something which would most likely raise her in the ranks of the Zhentarim… I wonder why she would hide it._

Firanis had the chance to test her assessment of Yarija’s intelligence many times during her lengthy talk with Torio. Rare was the subject in which Yarija was out of opinion and her remarks were always spot-on. Her intellect was bright, powerful and truly uncanny.

Then, there was Rekat. He was far more guarded than Yarija was with her commentaries, but whenever he spoke, he sounded… She couldn’t quite put it to words, but the thief appeared to analyze every single angle of an issue and if he ever sounded selfish, Firanis reckoned it wasn’t because he was truly that way; he had probably spent most of his life alone and had been used to think about no one but himself.

The hours dragged away into the afternoon, then the evening… And all the while, Bishop had not said a word. To be able to see and feel him and to be deprived of hearing his voice at the same time… It somehow troubled Firanis more than she would have liked to admit.

It was only when she, along with her three shadows were walking back to the Hosttower in which her room was located that, for the first time that day and almost unconsciously, Firanis stole a glance at Bishop.

She shouldn’t have been so astounded to find he was staring right back at her.

But she was.

 

 

Warding the aasimar’s room had been nothing compared to what she was doing now.

Rune after rune, incantation after incantation, binding after binding… Vasjra’s head spun, protesting against the exhaustion, but the half-Drow easily shoved that pain aside. She was a Pain after all and one of her standing had to be able to endure both physical and mental hurts.

Kneeling in the floor at the feet of Loviatar’s statue and spreading her arms wide, her lips moved. Notions of time and place escaped her as she focused all her will and power in that last recitation…

Finally, she knew no more words to utter and her lips ceased their movement. Taking a moment to collect herself, Vasjra breathed in before rising to stand on shaky legs. She wobbled to the door and ordered her guards to call someone who was not on duty right now – someone _capable_ enough to fulfill a very important task…

Then, she turned to the Fallen deva. “A Betrayer for a city of betrayers,” Vasjra mused aloud. “I’d say it’s quite fitting. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would agree that betrayers are meant to end up being betrayed as well,” the Fallen deva’s resonant voice reverberated around the room. “Do not expect me to be on your side for too long.”

“Ah, Fallen deva,” the Pain said. “How _these_ bindings will prove you wrong…”

“I have fought beings far stronger than _you_ , Priestess,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You can barely stand as you are now; how can your wards be strong enough to force me into obeying you?”

“And here I was thinking Fallen devas still retained their sense of honor,” Vasjra mocked. “All you can do is fling empty threats at me. How petty.”

“You know nothing of my story—”

“I know _plenty_ of your story; when one has traveled the planes in search for knowledge, they are bound to come across it sooner or later,” Vasjra corrected; her voice wasn’t strong, but the authoritative tone she put in it was enough to silence the deva. “Turned against the Heavens because of their lack of action towards the Evil in the Planes; they said it was natural balance but you, rash and impatient, demanded war… and ended up waging war itself against the troops of heaven.

“Had you gone further with it, you would have lost, soundly; however, a man with no name to call his own came and told you perhaps you could still be forgiven for all you’d done. But you were _not_ forgiven and have been wandering the Lower Planes for… how many years, exactly?” She lolled her head back and laughed at his face, which had become more and more terrified with each word she’d spoken.

 “When I summoned you, I did not ask for _a_ betrayer; I asked for _the_ Betrayer. And her Lady of Pain herself granted my request. It is by her will that you are here and it will be by that same will which you willbe bound.”

The door creaked open and Kalyt’s Chess piece ranger came into view. “What do you want?”

The half-drow lifted her eyebrows. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding the aasimar’s door six floors below?”

“Your guard said it was an urgent matter when he found me at her door; plus, Rekat’s guarding her door,” he told her. Vasjra sighed.

“Rekat’s going to have business of his own to attend to soon. What about Yarija?”

“Brian took her.”

She massaged her temples slowly but firmly, the tips of her fingers becoming sticky with sweat. “It’s is lamentable we’re so short-handed nowadays,” she let out. “I don’t think anyone’s coming to kill her yet – Luskans would never be able to devise an effective plan so quickly and none of us is willing to defy Shemal…” she tapped her chin with her index finger, eyes half-lidded. “My wards alone should suffice until one of these two imbeciles at my door finds Aniel… I so hate sending men after her…”

After that low addendum she’d made more to herself than any of the men, Vasjra threw an amulet at Bishop. “He,” she pointed at the Fallen deva, “is bound to that trinket and is forced to stay within ten feet radius from it. Take him to Neire’s room – it’s in this tower and is a floor above the aasimar’s; she’s not there yet, so you’re going to have to wait.”

Examining the amulet sitting in his hand, Bishop said, “That’s awfully simple for an utterly important task. Why don’t you do it yourself?”

 “Because, ranger, _I_ haven’t caught a wink of sleep in _three_ nights and am behind my rites. Now, unless you want to stay and watch me walk on barbed wire, I suggest you take the deva and _go_.”

Bishop grunted dryly and walked out of the door; the deva did not move until, suddenly, he was pushed forward by an invisible force; he dug his heels onto the stone floor but no matter his resistance, he was still obligated to follow the same path the ranger had taken.

Before closing the door, Vasjra called after the deva, “Have you fought anyone stronger than a God, Betrayer? Because when you struggle with your bindings, it is one you shall battle.”

He shot her an angry, seething glare and she smiled in return. Yes, when it came to pain, she was a master. When she meant to hurt, she did so meticulously, with the weapon best suited for the effort. Vasjra knew that, when she chose to, her words could pierce deeper than any blade and crush one’s will more effectively than a falling mountain.

And she was proud of it.

 

 

With both Rekat and Bishop outside her bedroom door, guarding, Firanis stood alone on her balcony, frowning; the voice coming just now from one of the other porch was a deep, melodic baritone, like bells chiming atop a great Church – and she’d heard it before.

Trias. It was Trias.

Before she knew what she was doing, Firanis threw open her bedroom door and made her way through the curved stairs which led to the floor above, only mildly registering that _no one_ had been at her door.

Yarija she knew wouldn’t be there, but… where were Bishop and Rekat?

“…strange that things are happening the way they are. I feel like I’ve seen you someplace before and but I know I haven’t. It’s like there’s something in you that’s somehow familiar to me…” She didn’t make out what the other person was saying to Trias, as he was speaking too low; after those barely audible sentences, the deva kept speaking. “Perhaps it is that – we both have done something and don’t know if we’ve been forgiven for it. Because you know, after all _she_ said to me, I really did think I had been. She knows so much after all… with wisdom beyond her years and an intelligence which cannot be found easily these days. But no; she was wrong. And you find that those people you deem _too_ good… well, once you break their trust, they’re the least likely to hand it back to you. As good and as just Raziel the Crusader might be, he does not have it in his heart to trust his son again, like she believed he would,” a pause, followed by a sigh. “Which is why I’m here; he didn’t even listen to my mother begging him.”

“So now you’re bound to the halfling?” Firanis’s heart nearly stopped at the sound of the second voice. It was rougher than it had been when she’d last heard it, as though, little by little, it was choking under some great weight.

It hurt.

“Yeah. And worst thing is, I have to go to Neverwinter in a couple of days. Your boss, Shemal, he…” Firanis could almost hear Trias’s gulp from where she was standing, at the threshold of the balcony. “He wants me to kill her.”

“Who, the mad half-elf tiefling kid?”

A pause. “You… have met Tyavain?”

“Unfortunately,” Bishop muttered under his breath.

“ _You_ are the ranger she talked about,” Trias’s voice, risen an octave higher, was consumed with astonishment. “She tried to warn you—”

“Did she? I recall things differently; the girl showed up when I expected the less, spewing nothing but mumbo jumbo out of her mouth.”

“If there’s one thing Tyavain does not speak, it is nonsense; it might seem so at first, but if you pay close attention, there’s only truth to be found in her words. No wonder she was so worried.” the deva sounded almost insulted. “When she speaks, one listens; _that_ is what you should have done.”

“Do I _really_ have to listen to your incessant chatter while we wait?”

“You don’t, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop talking either – and I _have_ been said my voice is hard to ignore.”

“Vain, imposing and arrogant; no wonder you’re Fallen,” Bishop’s insult was tinged with mockery.

“Coward, bitter and blind; no wonder you lost her,” Trias smoothly shot back. “You should have seen her in the Heavens, ranger. The place her blood binds her to – the place where she’s meant to go but you cannot follow. The _Paladin_ , however—”

Bishop cut the deva off, fiercely. “Do I _look_ like I care?”

“It appears that you do, Bishop.”

Firanis quietly went through the remaining steps which lead to one of the common balconies the Hosttower had; she peeked a little around the wall and saw both man standing near the balustrade, their backs to her.

When a few minutes passed without hearing a response from Bishop, Trias pressed further, “Could it be that you think your chance is long gone?”

“It could be a lot of things; but at least I’m not going to kill her; unlike you and the tiefling girl.”

Firanis winced. Leave it to Bishop to deliver such a cheap blow.

“Yes…” Trias’s voice softened once again. “Only that she’s a girl no longer. She’s a woman and a _very_ dangerous one at that. Shemal figured that out and wants her gone.” Trias’s voice was now grave and laden with sorrow.

“And you’re not going to be able to carry out his order.” Firanis raised an eyebrow at the certainty in Bishop’s tone; it was almost as if he knew exactly what the deva was going through because he himself had experienced that.

“Tyavain, she...” there was something of a smile in the way Trias was speaking, and a hint of nostalgia as well. “You’ve felt her touch, ranger; I can feel it on you however faint it might have grown – so you know what I mean when I say she’s indescribable.”

It was a while before Bishop muttered, “You’re besotted with her.”

“I really don’t know… am I? I fear her and yet…”

 _Such hurt…_ Firanis noted to herself. _He really doesn’t know how he feels towards Tyavain and it’s tearing him apart._ But when she’d seen them in Mertion, she’d been sure, _so_ sure that Tyavain and Trias loved one another… It had been like gazing at the limpid waters of a river and had been as easy as to know how to take the next breath.

Firanis realized she must’ve made some brusque movement because suddenly, she found Bishop’s eyes staring back at her, dark under the pale light of the moon. Her breath caught in her throat and she grew colder and colder. She was conscious that Trias was looking at her as well and that she _had_ to turn to him but by the Gods… all her willpower had deserted her, leaving space for the confusion she’d been caging to spring free. Right now all she wanted to do was ask “ _Why?”_ and she didn’t even know the reason!

It was a flicker in Bishop’s tight expression which gave her back her wits. _He’s running from something as well; he’s running from something_ still _and I… We_ _… we’re both evading each other. Just like in the Vale of Merdelain._

_A circle._

Finally, she mustered the strength to look at Trias and, in a distant part of her mind, she saw Eleste, scolding her because _everything that’s happened to me has happened a thousand times over – only with different outcomes_.

“Tyavain longs for you as well, Trias,” Firanis found herself saying that sentence, standing in front of Trias. He looked at her, wholly unsurprised to find her there. He opened his mouth to speak, but he never got a chance to.

“Then it’s just as good that they’re going to meet soon, isn’t it?” came another voice behind her, high-pitched and quick-paced; a female dark-haired Halfling was the source of it. She held a hand in Bishop’s direction and, wordlessly, he handed her an amulet unlike any other Firanis had ever seen. “Come then, deva. We have to prepare.”

The deva’s tall, sculptured figured passed her by and, in the single moment their gazes locked, Trias’s brown eyes swelled with a sorrow so strong Firanis felt her problems were minor and irrelevant next to his.

She didn’t even need to look to be aware that both the deva and the Halfling had left; the atmosphere between her and Bishop grew so thick, it was palpable. None of them dared to move, speak or even breathe.

For so long, she’d told herself he’d been afraid of his feelings for her. She thought herself right, but… One single question would be right, wouldn’t it? That strange wavering in his eyes, she had to know, she had… “Just,” her eyes trailed away to the ground of the balcony, appearing as meek as her voice, “when did we start fearing each other?”

His reply was almost immediate, and it sounded indignant. “I don’t fear you, I—”

“You what, Bishop?” Firanis patiently asked, trying to mask her emotions by looking up at the night sky, the soft glow of the moon making her skin glow with a ghostly, translucent light; her heart was aching so much that she had to take a hand to her chest to make sure the pain wasn’t keeping it from beating. She’d thought she was ready for this eventuality but now she could see she wasn’t. It hurt to look at Bishop; it hurt to hear his voice, it hurt to smell his scent and it hurt to have him so near her and be unable to touch him because the memories of the past insisted on playing themselves in her head over and over again. 

He stared at her profile for a while, the sound of his heavy respiration on her ears, tantalizing her… Firanis hugged herself and bit into her lower lip, hoping that Bishop would think the glistening in her eyes was due to the starlight and not to the tears which hung on the edges of her lower lids. “Why did you leave, then?” she insisted in a fake strong tone. “If not out of fear, then what was it out of? Hate?”

Firanis heard Bishop holding his breath. Gods, how she wished she’d never met him again, how she wished she’d ignored the hurt his voice had caused minutes before, how she wished she hadn’t stepped into the conversation between him and Trias…

The sound of steps; a smooth night breeze caressed her skin through the nightgown and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine, a shiver so strong that it completely broke down the last shreds of control and made a couple of fat tears run freely down her face.

Firanis looked back and found she was alone.

 _Out in the cold, alone again with nothing but pain to keep me company_ , were the words that echoed within her mind; she took a hand to her face, hiding it, and let out a soft cry… because the worst part of it was that, no matter how she looked at it, no matter what she did nor what she said, there was not a single part of her which regretted having that pain inflicted upon herself.

Her fist hit the marble balustrade; her knees bent, her head spun. She’d been over him! Bishop had used her, had betrayed her, had walked out on her… She should hate him! She thought she would be certain of that the moment she had the unhappiness of seeing him again; she should want to rip his beating heart out of his chest, not be glad that he was still alive! It was a feeling so contrary to itself, so hard to describe, that Firanis felt like a rag doll being torn up: with every single part of her screaming, commanding, pushing her into doing something else completely different from what the other parts were saying.

And Tyavain’s farewell suddenly made sense… _The Gods are cruel sometimes, but in order to achieve a greater good, one must go through a great deal of evil, Firanis. Sometimes salvation is where we least expect it. Don’t… forget that, please._ Tyavain had known she’d meet Bishop again and she hadn’t told her. Why? Why wouldn’t the tiefling warn her? It hurt so much, knowing it beforehand would have certainly helped her reign in these unexpected emotions.

It was as if Tyavain had wanted her defenseless when she needed her guard up the most.

“Well, well, well…” a female voice stepped into Firanis’s thoughts and snapped her back into the present. “What do we have here?”

Firanis gasped and looked at the voice’s source and found a striking diamond-shaped face, the full lips curled up in a twisted, sadistic smile, and a generously curved body covered by nothing but a silken singlet and a knee-length skirt, both pieces as white as the woman’s skin. Torio had warned Firanis about this woman before… Aniel was her name, if she recalled correctly, and as the Ambassador had put it, she was just as cruel as she was beautiful.

Aniel knelt down beside Firanis and her black eyes bore deep into her own as if trying to pierce them. “The evil ranger and the perfect Princess… Such an odd combination to be made in real life; I would never have guessed,” the woman stated in a deep, sultry voice that seemed to make the air itself coo in delight as it traveled across the distance between them.

“It’s not like that,” said the aasimar as firmly as she could.

“No?” the woman gracefully chuckled, placing a hand in front of her full, sultry lips. “Because I would have sworn that by your choked tone—”

“What is it to you?”

Aniel’s eyes widened and Firanis noticed they weren’t black, but of a very dark shade of green… like ripe dark olives. “It’s much; because _now_ I have an advantage over that slimy bastard.”

Firanis frowned, sharply whispering, “Why would you want that? You’ll accomplish nothing by blackmailing someone who’s lost everything already.”

The woman’s sharp-nailed fingers moved to her chin, caressing it, making goose bumps appear on her skin. “You’re mistaken. Everything here is rotten to the core and there is nothing but threads of fear and hatred connecting us to each other; we’re all stuck in this city because of our superior’s orders – even _you_ , little Princess, are only still alive because they won’t let any of us touch you.

“The only weapon we have when we can’t physically harm the ones we despise, my darling, is information; among us, it was your pretty boy who had the upper hand before; now he’s little reign of terror is over,” the woman finished in a hiss, so close to Firanis’s face that their lips were brushing together.

The aasimar felt waves of hatred irradiating from the woman’s soft touch when she released her chin and rose up, looking up at the sky. “Plus, my little princess,” Aniel began, “how can you claim he’s lost everything when he obviously still has you?” the way she snorted at Firanis before leaving was vile, disgusted and filled with what Firanis thought to be jealousy.

“You’re in love,” the aasimar noted in a whisper when Aniel reached the glass door, causing the woman to stop and laugh.

“Am I? How so, when _that_ feeling doesn’t exist?”

“It does,” Firanis persisted. “What do you think makes men fall for succubi so strongly?”

“Lust,” Aniel’s reply had been quick, obvious to its speaker.

“No. Lust doesn’t explain it; it’s a feeling too primal, too superficial to be held accountable for the surrendering of a soul. You just believe it is because _love_ involves more endeavors and pain. It exists and is there but you choose to hate because compared to love, hate is such an easy way out…” the aasimar said, looking down at the white marble floor of the balcony. “And so you pretend it doesn’t matter, you _pretend_ that you’re right and keep on hating and hating; but you know, our souls can only take on a certain measure of it and once they’re full, it overflows to strip you bare of all other emotions and eats you from inside out.”

Aniel turned to look at her from the corner of her eye, but didn’t speak.

Firanis felt that the woman was threatening her with that strong gaze, but… there was something else there as well: curiosity and fear. “Is it that hard to admit?”

After a while, Aniel _humpfed_ , a sardonic smile playing on her lips as she said. “Like I said before: we’re rotten to the very core, little Princess. Don’t assume that you _know_ anything about us when you’re so obviously _not_ slated to hate.”

Aniel was right; Firanis really wasn’t a person meant to truly detest someone but… “In the beginning, _no one_ is made to hate. People just misinterpret life’s lessons and think it’s the only thing they have left.”

“Spoken like a true martyr,” Aniel’s tone was almost            incriminating; she firmly pulled Firanis up to her feet. “But come, Princess; time to get back to your room.”

“You were not allotted to guard me,” Firanis pointed out.

“No,” Aniel confirmed. “But Vasjra figured that since I already am tasting your food, I might as well cover up for Rekat’s ass.” Then, in a resentful hiss, she added. “I am _always_ covering for Rekat’s ass.”

Rekat… what had he said when Torio had spoken of Aniel? _“Just stay away from both her lips and temper and you should be fine.”_

  _“Why? Has anyone crossed them both?”_ Firanis had asked.

As if had been the dumbest question, Yarija had laughed darkly and humorlessly. _“It is said someone has – why else do you think she’s so embittered?”_

Firanis had noticed Yarija’s allegation had been carefully neutral and now she had experienced firsthand what the young woman had meant. She had no idea what Aniel had meant about blackmailing Bishop, but if the half-succubus was indeed going to, then it meant she wasn’t going to tell anyone what she’d seen now – except for Bishop, that was; and somehow, Firanis was absolutely sure he was not going to make light of Aniel’s threats. He didn’t want their common past revealed anymore than Firanis did.

But one thing was certain… Succubi tended to believe in love; even if they never felt it, they knew it existed because one of their favorite sports was to make men fall in love with them so completely, they surrendered their souls to them. Alu-fiends, their offspring with a mortal, tended to be pretty much the same.

Yet Aniel… she had completely lost faith in love and believed only in lust. And such odium hanging behind her every sentence… as if her once she’d believed in it and had had those principles robbed from her and, when she’d looked for them, they simply hadn’t been there anymore.

_It takes a very skilled thief to steal a heart like that. And I’m going to find out who was the person whose skills have been honed so sharply he was able to achieve such a feat._


	12. Monody: Lapses, Poison, Madness

**_Monody_ **

_“Tell me one thing,” he began as he moved one of his pieces forward, “Why choose one who opposes you so much as your King?”_

_Almost tenderly, she caressed the top of her King’s head; her voice, too, was unusually gentle… a crooned lullaby. “You are wrong. He does not oppose me…” she looked up at him and smiled something so feral and cruel, that in that moment, she was a predator enjoying its prey squirming before delivering the final blow._

_Then, in that same sweet, soft tune, she sang, “He wants me.”_

 

**Twelve**

_Lapses_

_Poison_

_Madness_

 

 

Tyavain sat on the stool, eyes closed; she took in a deep breath at the same time her fingers brushed the keys of the piano in a feathery, intimate caress...

_So long… it has been so long…_

Her right hand struck a violent, trembling note, then another and another… Soon, the left hand joined its lower pitch to it, moving from chord to chord in perfect harmony. Her heart soared, a crushing weight suddenly lifting off it and the mist enveloping her mind began to dissipate, allowing her to discern the deeper aspects of the melody.

No, the right hand was too strong, too angry… Tyavain moderated it and soon what she heard was a plea of release, a bird caged, chirping a desperate, quick song which peeled off each one of the tainted layers of her mind.

The left wasn’t right either… it had to sound more like the rustling of leaves stirred by the mild flow of the wind and careful steps of the bird’s jailor…

The bird struggled; the wind became louder; the guard came to check on it and their hearts, much like the alternate legato and staccato notes woven by both Tyavain’s hands, cried out in protest. Her lower notes rose higher than the higher ones for a moment as the warden struggled; then it was the higher notes playing above once again…

_Pain, so much pain…_

The bird and its captor, the bird and its captor, the bird and its captor… For so long were the left and right hands fighting, one always trying to speak over the other. Hearts denied, both of them…

Tyavain’s body swayed as her right hand traveled upwards to the acute octaves. Diffident, separated notes, one last cry, one last attempt at freedom…

She finalized the melody with an abrupt, jarring chord. Tyavain tilted her head back, her eyelids and lips sliding open as the vicious return of the taints knocking the breath out of her lungs.

 _He clipped your wing,_ the Tanar’ri murmured.

 _Set you free,_ The Baatezu immediately followed.

Tyavain’s closed fists struck the piano’s keys in a cacophonous burst. _Where is he?_ She demanded.

 _He? We do not know who he is…_ One set of the voices replied.

 _But we do know, yes…_ the other said.

Tyavain felt her bones chill; she stubbornly set her jaw and determinedly straightened her back, reformulating the question. _Where is Trias?_

Silence.

Then, almost meekly, the Tanar’ri spoke, their voices a brief, shallow hiss. _Why, little thing… he’s in your heart._

Tyavain didn’t even wait for the Baatezu’s reply to know they were going to be the ones lying.

She began another tune, then, one of the many her aunt had taught her to play. Somehow, between her aunt Amianna’s despair and Tyavain’s own madness, they’d discovered playing the piano forced the younger girl to concentrate on it so hard, the taints went almost unheard. Ever since she was three and her parents had taken her to Athkatla, Tyavain had been playing the piano and it was one of the links to sanity she still had left.

They were so scarce now, those faint connections she had… now more so than ever as the only one with whom she could count on even in the Lower Planes would be forever unreachable.

Trias… she could never again count on Trias.

Tyavain had seen in the room of glass walls and floor that she belonged in the White and he in the Black. It had seemed awfully wrong to her; she was the one called the Twice-Damned after all, wasn’t she? Wrong, wrong, it was all _wrong_ … Just like in their goodbye when her hand had gone to where her lips should have been and vice-versa.

In her, everything was completely, blasphemously _wrong_.

The music halted, her shaky hands unable to continue it. Tyavain’s breathing grew irregular and shallow, the ceiling and walls around her blurring. Little droplets fell on her arms, then more and more until all Tyavain could do was cover her face and cry into the palms of her hands.

Her body missed him. It cried for him, for the absence of his soothing voice and unique touch; her mind, however, didn’t know why the depth of such grievous longing. It was as if her body had experienced something with Trias her mind hadn’t registered and Tyavain had no idea of what it had been. Her memories of the Lower Planes were often foggy and broken, like a puzzle to which Tyavain couldn’t find the missing pieces she needed to complete it.

Those gaps didn’t bother her as much as she would have liked to admit; one way or another, she could fill them in, like the time when a group of Abishai had tried to capture her and the next memory had been of the devils’ corpses around her. Tyavain didn’t remember, but she knew she had killed them all. Most lapses were predictable failures in the puzzle, pieces of the sky or the ground you could easily figure had no real importance beyond completing the scenery.

One of those little failures in her recollections, however… It was a chunk out of the center of the puzzle. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what had happened between that night and the following morning and it was tearing her apart!

Think, think… she had to _think_ …

Viciously, Tyavain wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, she began playing. Music cleared her mind and she had to think, she had to _know_ what had happened. But the only thing she saw in her mind was Trias, smiling at her, his fingers grazed her temples as he brushed a lock of hair from her face and hooked it behind her ear; Trias, kissing her in the forehead, holding her in his arms, whispering her to calm down as she tossed and turned in her ceaseless madness.

Tender. Smooth. Ginger. But it invariably was, always Trias.

The ghost of a breath fanned the side of her neck; a heated hand made its way past the splits of her dress, the slick sweat allowing it to effortlessly slide across her buttocks and into the inside of her thighs.

Tyavain’s concentration broke and she could think about it no longer.

In frustration, she rose from her seat and screamed, hands balled into fists. She paced around the room, the taints resurfacing in their familiar mingle of lies and truths. With wide eyes and an irregular breathing, she stopped and looked around to notice it was morning already. Somehow, without noticing it, Tyavain had either been playing the piano or been pacing from sunset to dawn.

She hated losing sense of time. She hated she had no control over herself. And most of all, she hated those insatiable voices invading her mind. But those thoughts were minimal compared to everything else which was going on inside her head so they were quickly submerged under many others which weren’t hers – but about which she thought anyway.

Whenever people had told her the worst thing that could happen to them was losing a loved one, Tyavain had found it amusing but she’d respected those nonetheless – she had, after all, roamed the Lower Planes in search of her parents. But when they’d told her it was to fall in misery, Tyavain had laughed; and when they’d told her it was death, Tyavain had laughed even harder.

Clearly, those people had not know what it was to be stripped of _choice_.

Tyavain’s foot stopped midair when the door to the music creaked open.

“Lady Tyavain?” one of the maids called. “There’s a lady in the Entrance Hall; she wants to see you about the job you’ve posted.”

Tyavain nodded and, taking one last look flared with nostalgia at the piano, she left to the Entrance Hall. A woman – half-elf, like her – was standing there, hands behind her back; dark blue eyes met hers and the visitor cringed.

Tyavain suppressed the urge to frown. Was she really _that_ scary?

The tiefling smiled at the newcomer in the hopes of easing the other woman’s mood, “Greetings. How may I be of service, lady—”

“Malin,” the ranger presented her name in a stammer, watching as the girl strode forward, her hair like a trail of flames flowing behind her. Was _this_ the person she was supposed to be scouting for? She couldn’t be over twenty and for someone so young to live in a house like this and still need an escort… It was, at least, modestly strange. “I was told you needed the services of a ranger.”

“Yes,” the girl politely replied. “How well do you know the area of Neverwinter Wood?”

“Pretty well; I’ve been working on it for the past eight years.”

“Ever came across a seemingly abandoned house at the southernmost edge?”

Malin frowned. The girl was _testing_ her! “The two story building covered in ivy?” She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I know of it.”

The girl clapped her hands together. “Excellent – because that is where you will be taking me,” she extended a thin, long-fingered hand, which Malin took. “I believe you already know the payment is one thousand gold pieces for a job well done?”

“Yes.” Which was, Malin though, a ridiculously high amount for the job. Not that she would complain – it was one of the incentives she’d had in order to answer the call. “And what is your name?”

The girl’s hand, still in Malin’s, went limp. For a moment the ranger thought the girl had fallen asleep while standing, but her eyes – of the most intense cerulean shade Malin had ever beheld – were bulging out of their sockets and her mouth, held ajar, wavered.

After a prickly moment, the girl’s stance hardened and she replied, “My name is Tyavain.”

Malin could only wonder as to why someone would put such strong determination into that simple of a sentence.

 

 

Save for the small fires which heated up the vials, the room was immersed in complete darkness. Aniel squinted as she meticulously added the right dose of extract to the brew. Fumes rose, momentarily lending her skin a greenish hue.

Had it anyone else, the areas the smoke had touched would have grown numb already. Aniel frowned at the irony that she was safe because of a massive, near-death experience with the animal poison she was working with now.

 _Perhaps there’s some truth to that whole “_ What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” _saying after all_ , she thought.

That aside, she still couldn’t believe Bishop had been in some way involved with their aasimar prisoner. _No_ , she mentally corrected herself, _guest. She is a_ guest _._

How could Shemal not know about it? For instance, when it came to her, he’d made sure she knew he knew every little aspect of her past – from the Djinni who’d sent her away to the time she’d spent in Skuld and how she escaped the place to those hateful years in Baldur’s Gate. And Aniel was just one of his little servants, unlike Firanis who he clearly was obsessing about, so Aniel had especially found it quaint that he had not discovered anything regarding Firanis’s past… adventures.

After checking several official records of the Second War of Shadow – the one in which the little Princess had thrived – Aniel had grown even more dumbfounded than she’d previously been. There was absolute no mention of a _Bishop_ – the only facts regarding Firanis’s companions back then had been the statements that they were many – but beyond that nothing else was said, not even _names_. There was clearly some downplaying here, Aniel concluded, just like it often happened in history books.

As for a ranger, only one had been mentioned – a man whose real given name was unknown had, apparently, betrayed the Princess at the last moment, never to be sighted again and was, presumably, dead.

Since Aniel highly doubted humans named their children after chess pieces, she was sure Bishop was just an alias the ranger used. Could it be that he was the one who’d left Crossroad Keep open for an attack?

She could care less about the details anyway. There was _history_ between those two and Aniel was going to make him regret the nasty little blackmailing he’d put her under. Not that it mattered anymore – everything he was threatening to spill Rekat had seen already. After Rekat had left her because he’d though she was going to kill him, what Bishop could possibly tell the thief no longer concerned her. Although from that little talk she and the ranger had had that day, there was one small detail which still hung back to pester her every now and then.

And right now, it had decided to pop up again and couple with what the Princess had said yesterday.

_“Is it that hard to admit?”_

Well, if Bishop wasn’t with her, then it probably was.

Aniel sighed, half-heartedly reaching out for the wooden tweezers so that she could pick the vial out of the fire. Pouring the contents into a clean flask, Aniel realized she was about to find out tonight just _how hard_ exactly was it going to be for Bishop to admit he loved Firanis.

And in case her guess of the depth of Bishop and Firanis’s relationship had been wrong and Bishop wouldn’t drink this… Well, Firanis wouldn’t either. She was immune, so there was no loss that, if Bishop refused to drink the poison, she would be the one doing it before the aasimar took a sip. There was no way Aniel would risk Shemal’s wrath by letting a poison make its way into Firanis’s table when _she_ was the one responsible; plus, as much as she hated to confess even to herself, once Bishop had faced her with it, Aniel could no longer hide from the fact she _cared_ about what happened Rekat.

_“You’re in love.”_

It wasn’t the sentence itself but the way in which it had been said that made it impossible for Aniel to dismiss it. Normally, when she’d heard people making such a statement, it had been cheerful and light-hearted – yet the aasimar had sounded as surprised and Aniel could’ve sworn there was a hint of sadness in there as well.

Because… if it was as Firanis had described… love was nothing short of excruciatingly painful.

Aniel firmly believed whatever she had in for Rekat was definitely _not_ love; it had something to do with him being the only person who openly wanted her and yet, had denied himself that when she had been willing to give it to him. She might even say it was because, at first, he, unlike any other man, had frowned at her rather than wooing her. But _love_? It was so far-fetched, so… impossible to her.

It was as though as she’d been hiding in a shadow all along, perfectly aware of her surroundings and had now been cast into light. What was around her hadn’t changed – rather, her _perspective_ of them had. And she didn’t want it. It simply was something she could not afford to have in her life. Except that if it was absolutely superfluous… why couldn’t she clear Firanis’s words from her mind?

One way or another, she’d have to annihilate whatever feelings she had for Rekat completely… but she did not know how.

Aniel had told him pretending things did not matter was what kept her from breaking apart. Now, however, she wasn’t so sure. Because with him, with Rekat… pretending wasn’t nearly enough. It was as if he was a part of her, both near and far away and she could never stop thinking about him. Yes, sometimes he fell into the back of her mind but it was something temporary - Rekat always returned to haunt her.

She was fully aware should already have severed whatever attachments she had to him in order to survive this… what she didn’t know, however, was both how and if she could do that.

 

 

“Well then,” Khelgar said, “What now?”

“Ammon Jerro, the girl and I came to a conclusion last night,” Sand said. “We need the rest of the shards.”

“Firanis is going to need that sword with its full power,” the warlock proceeded to explain. “And the more shards she has, the stronger she will be.”

Khelgar found himself to be rather apprehensive towards the idea. Didn’t Firanis also have—

“Aren’t you forgetting about the one in her chest?” Neeshka voiced the exact same concern the dwarf had been thinking about. “Do you plan on cutting her open to retrieve that one?”

“Hopefully, that might not be needed,” Sand explained. “And she’s been trained in manipulating the various pieces of the sword – change the way she fights now and chances are we’ll go back to scale one and she’ll be tripping all over herself. Do you want to see _that_ again?”

“Ha. Definitely not,” Neeshka sardonically smiled. “How to you plan on finding the rest of the shards anyway?”

“The same way the Githyanki did,” Zhjaeve spoke. “Scrying. The pieces respond to one another; we use one of the ones we currently have and it will lead us to the others.”

“But didn’t you try that the first time around, Sand?” Khelgar pondered. “I remember you saying—”

“Tyavain made it possible,” Ammon Jerro clarified. “After she spent a whole night studying the properties of the Sword and then focused on just one piece. Apparently, she only had the strength to work on one but we figured it was all we needed.”

“And where’s she now, then?” Khelgar asked as in involuntary shiver raked its way up his spine. There had been something about the red-headed half-elven tiefling which made him uneasy. Sure, she had taken them out of the Upper Planes but he still had heard a little voice inside him scream “ _Dangerous!”_ whenever he had looked at her afterwards.

“Resting,” said Sand. “And before you ask, no, she isn’t going to help us find the shards; she’s better suited for what she’ll be attempting to do tomorrow.”

The Dwarf cocked his head to one side, “Which is?”

“Finding another suitable way to learn True names. She is limited as to how many she can see in a day and she isn’t too keen on letting the Taints do her work.”

“I thought they gave her all the power,” Neeshka breathed.

Ammon Jerro leaned back on his chair and tilted his head backwards. “Once, maybe; but rather than succumbing to their call, Tyavain learned how to make use of the head start they gave her and ended up studying Truenaming magic as she would have done with the Arcane Arts. They give her power, but they’re not all there is to her.”

“She may be half-mad, but she’s also smart,” Sand shrugged. “I guess you probably have to be when you co-exist with voices inside your head all the time.”

Neeshka shuddered, “Yeah. I remember when Garius put voices inside my head; it was bad enough when they only lasted a few hours – I can’t even imagine what she goes through with them screaming all the time.” Then, biting down the side of her lower lip, Neeshka turned to Ammon Jerro. “How _can_ she travel alone like that?”

“She can’t. Hired a ranger today and after Nevalle overheard Sand and I talking, he wants to go with her as well.”

The tiefling’s head jerked slightly back, her brows shooting up into her forehead, “Why?”

It was Sand who answered, “He’s afraid of what she might engender. If you knew her mother, you wouldn’t blame him. The chances _he’_ ll indeed, go, are low anyhow – despite how much our dear friend Jerro kept on telling him to go after Tyavain, I don’t think she’ll take him.”

Ammon Jerro chuckled, “It’ll be fun to see him fail anyway.”

After a short pause, Khelgar went back to what was the main purpose of their meeting. “What are we going to do about the shards, then?”

Wordlessly, Sand reached for the small chest he had on the floor beside his chair and set it on the table. “We start now.”

 

 

“A copper for your thoughts?” Katriona sat beside him on the church bench, an easy smile softening the otherwise hard line of her lips.

“A good day to you, Katriona,” Casavir nodded curtly. “What brings you here?”

“I was searching for you.”

“How did you know I’d be here?”

“You have always been trying to atone, Casavir.”

Casavir’s head whipped to the side and he looked at the warrior next to him. She was wearing the blue garments common to the Nine, her head demurely facing down as she traced the embroidery of the Eye of Never on her chest with her hands. After a while in quietness, she stopped and turned her sapphire gaze to him to ask, “Don’t you think it’s enough?”

“No,” Casavir replied before he could detain himself.

The Nine sighed and, spreading her legs, Katriona placed her elbows on her knees and let her arms dangle freely between them, “Typical of you, Casavir. Thinking everything is your fault and trying to redeem others by taking the blame onto yourself.”

“I do not—”

“Yes, you do.” Katriona steadfastly stated. “And someday, it’s going to have to stop.”

The Paladin sighed harshly. “What do you want, Katriona?”

He hadn’t quite measured his tone and Casavir slightly regretted it when the Nine cringed. Katriona was – or at least had been – his friend. Why was he snapping at her when she was only voicing her concerns?

“I thought…” she gulped, collecting herself. “Firanis or not, we need to fortify our defenses against a possible Zhentarim threat and I thought we could use your help. You are a brilliant tactician—”

“Old Owl Well wasn’t about brilliant tactics,” said Casavir.

“No, but before the siege, you were among the people who devised the defense plans; and had it not been for Bishop, they would have _worked_ , even against those abysmal odds.”

Casavir found out the mention of Bishop’s name had made him grimace. “It’s the first time in years I’ve heard that name said out loud.”

“Whose, Bishop’s?”

“Yes. It wasn’t just the name though; the whole _subject_ was forbidden. I trust it was some sort of mutual silent agreement we had going in the Upper Planes; everyone _wanted_ to talk about it but it was a very sensitive matter around Firanis, so one gave in to the urge.” He looked down at his hands and knotted his fingers together. “It reached its pinnacle the day Ilwyn asked Firanis about who her father was. And you know the worst part of it?

“There was absolutely no hatred in Firanis’s reply. Sadness, yes and most definitely pain as well – but _hatred_? Not a single drop of it.” He smiled bitterly. “After everything Bishop did, you’d think she’d resent him, at least a little. But when she doesn’t… do you _really_ think she’s going to be fine where she is now, Katriona?”

Her eyes widened in recognition. “You’re here to pray for her.”

“And to atone, as you so adamantly put it.”

Katriona alleviated both her frown and her stiff pose; her voice, however, was jagged. “You followed her out of nowhere back in Old Owl Well; what’s the problem in doing so now?”

“Things are different.”

“Many might be,” the Nine snorted. “But the way you look at her isn’t.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Casavir countered softly.

“You do? Then let me tell you, you are a fool; whatever feelings you might have developed for her, they came _later_. The first time you saw Firanis, Casavir, you were struck because in her, you recognized a beacon of light. You trusted her when you wouldn’t _anyone_ ,” at that, her voice croaked and she had to clear her throat to keep on speaking. “And even though she ended up hurting you badly, she’s still that same light you saw that day; you’re worried about her because, in your eyes, she’s still that naïve little girl being pushed and pulled by events out of her control.

“From what I saw before she left… she really isn’t that person anymore. She’s changed, when you…” Katriona shook her head. “You’re exactly as you were when I found you in that same place you did her. And…” Katriona took in a breath, rising from her seat as if to distract him from her hesitation. “I don’t want that to happen to you again.”

Casavir could feel her eyes drilling into him, hoping for a reaction. But her words had unexpectedly struck right through him and into his soul and in this sacred place where truth was valued, he couldn’t brush them off.

He heard the echoes of footsteps and realized Katriona was leaving. Casavir turned his torso and watched as her, with her head up high, marched out of the Church.

Before she reached the door, he rose and said. “I’m coming with you.”

Coming to a halt, Katriona looked at him from over her shoulder and… smiled.

 

 

Supplies had been packed and the plans set. Malin, having finished harnessing her dun gelding, inspected the girl’s mount, making sure Tyavain had not forgotten anything. The chestnut-colored horse patiently endured her precautious behavior, tenderly snuggling its muzzle against Tyavain’s neck when she patted the spot between its eyes.

“I have only seen a couple of these all my life,” Malin spoke in a low tone. “It is a Friesian horse, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tyavain confirmed.

“Chestnuts are not common, but I admit he’s quite charming.” The ranger stroke the horse’s barrel. “Why do you ride one of these – a cold-blooded horse, I mean. To where we’re going, a hot-blooded breed would have been more appropriate.”

Tyavain turned her gaze slightly to the left, away from Malin; once again, there was that confused, pained expression on her features whose origins Malin couldn’t quite unravel. “I have… trouble dealing with animals. Save for Xanthus here, no horse will even let me nearby.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed the Friesian’s muzzle. “This one is gentle and calmer and patient than any other I’ve encountered and, like me, he doesn’t belong anywhere.”

Malin’s eyebrows went down and she tried not to sound too offended by how the girl appeared to regard their race. “I’m a half-elf like you and I don’t think it’s too bad.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you,” the girl shyly apologized. “I’m not a half-elf, at least not in the same way you are.”

“You aren’t?”

There was an almost undetectable movement of Tyavain’s which indicated a negation; then the girl, much to Malin’s perplexity, bent down to pick up the lower end of her skirts to pull them up just a little above the knee.

That was when the ranger saw the tail.

“You’re a tiefling,” Malin commented.

Tyavain shrugged and tugged at her horse’s reins. “The tail makes me one, I suppose. Shall we stop at the Castle first before we go? There’s someone there I need to see.”

The walk to the castle was soundless between them; once they reached their destination, Tyavain tied her horse to the pole near the wood water container and Malin followed her example.

Malin had been inside Castle Never once or twice before, but never had she entered the Guest Quarters to which Tyavain was leading them into. After getting clearance from the Guard stationed at a door larger than the others from the offices they’d come across and a few twists and turns, a wave of pure emotion slammed into Malin’s chest, knocking the breath out of her lungs.

They were in the Inner Gardens, she observed; a square of semi-circular arcs of blue marble framed the small niche of lavender roses, white camellias and chrysanthemums, blue bellflowers and a variety of medicinal herbs; in the center of that garden of winter-blooming flowers, a little – and, strangely, oddly familiar - girl was singing. 

She was sitting on the ground, in front of a Wood elf and petting a medium-sized Phase Spider as she would a cat; as though the cold morning didn’t affect her, she smiled in her thin dress; her eyes were peacefully closed as she sang that ethereal tune whose words – in some foreign language, perhaps – were imperceptible. Nevertheless, the _tone_ in which the girl chanted… It was as if it was something which was meant to be understood with the heart and therefore, Malin could find no ways to describe it.

“Is anything wrong?” Tyavain asked her.

 “It’s just… The girl reminds me of someone.” Malin frowned, her mouth curved downwards. “I’m not sure of whom exactly, though.”

“Does she?” Tyavain raised an eyebrow at the ranger.

 “I probably just confused her face with someone else’s.” Malin shook her head, smiling. Still, she could swear the girl’s face had some similar traces to… _Nah, Malin, you’re overreacting. That wouldn’t be possible._ “I can’t make out a thing of what she’s saying but lovely voice, though; it shouldn’t belong to a child so young.”

“That’s because she’s singing like souls do,” the tiefling’s voice was an almost muted shiver. “If instead of _understanding_ you try _feeling_ , you’ll comprehend everything she’s saying.”

At a complete loss, Malin looked at Tyavain’s elegantly sculpted profile. _Feel_ a sound?

“Go on, try it,” Tyavain insisted.

Not knowing what else to do, Malin nodded. She made every single part of her stop trying to translate the song into words and opened her feelings to the voice. Her very core shook when a rush of sensations flooded it; there was so much sadness, uncertainty, hatred relief, happiness and love mingled that the ranger did not know what to make out of it…

It was like she was seeing into someone else’s heart and that person wasn’t able to separate and understand his or her very own emotions. But she knew one thing: whoever these emotions belonged to, that person was a half meeting its compliment.

“Hum… I believe it’s happened.” From Tyavain’s aloof tone, the ranger guessed the girl was talking to herself only. “I guess it was unavoidable after all.”

“What… was?” the ranger asked.

The woman blinked. “Oh. I’m sorry; I just tend to muse aloud a lot.” Her serious expression broke into a gentle smile as she said. “Don’t pay attention to me-”

The song – the beautiful, heart-wrenching melody – came to an end; the little girl opened her eyes to immediately fix them on Malin afterwards; the ranger found herself to be holding her breath due to a quick stab in her heart. Those eyes… those eyes were so much like…

 “Ilwyn?” Tyavain spoke the girl’s name smoothly, quietly. “Ilwyn, what’s wrong?”

 “Who are you?” Ilwyn’s quick, easy questioning caught Malin off guard.

The Wood elf sitting beside t Ilwyn took a hand to her chin. “Malin… isn’t it?”

The ranger nodded her answer before returning a question of her own. “Have we met…?”

The Wood elf rose from the bench and inclined her head. “I’m Elanee. We met briefly in Port Llast while we were searching for clues to help Firanis in the Trial.”

“Oh, _that_ … I heard she got off nicely—” Malin ceased her speech when Ilwyn’s liquid honey brown eyes flicked to her before returning to Elanee once more.

“What Trial?” Ilwyn asked. “How does she know mom?”

Weren’t it for Tyavain suddenly clasping Malin’s wrist as a warning for the ranger to keep quiet, Malin would have shouted a very surprised “ _What!?”_ instead of settling for a baffled look at her employer. Firanis had a child?

“Something they blamed her for when she was entirely innocent, Ilwyn,” Elanee told the child, smiling as she knelt in front of Ilwyn. “This lady here helped your mother prove it.”

“But she was innocent – why would she need to _prove_ it unless no one believed her?”

“Justice,” Tyavain’s voice sliced through the air like a knife. “Has a very relative meaning to it, Ilwyn. You can be innocent and some people _can_ believe you – but if you don’t sway the whole crowd to your favor, you will always be guilty.

“And in this city? When it comes to justice, is whether you know how to talk or not that’s going to save you.”

Elanee gave Tyavain a look which could only be considered of disapproval. Ilwyn, on the other hand, came tugging at Tyavain’s dress. “Why is your soul in flames?” She sucked in a breath as her eyes widened in shock. “Do you think those people mom didn’t convince are trying to harm her and that’s why she was sent with…” she grimaced, the thought apparently akin to a bitter flavor on the child’s tongue. “Him?”

Tyavain patted the top of Ilwyn head. “No. Your mother was proven innocent, remember? No one here will try to kill her.”

Malin got the impression there were _a lot_ of thoughts in Tyavain which weren’t being conveyed into words just now. The girl, as unforeseen as it was, appeared to have noticed the exact same thing because, in a muffled voice, she asked, “You can know for sure, can’t you?”

That girl’s face, that girl’s eyes… Malin could only remember a single person who was so similar to the girl in those aspects and, knowing him, it didn’t make much sense. However, when she remembered what Firanis had said that day… she couldn’t discard the possibility either.

Tyavain gasped before biting down into her lower lip. “I−”

“You know everything Tyavain!” the girl shouted, her small voice suddenly big, overwhelming. “Can’t you just ask where mom is? How she is? Please? You said you’d do it every day if I asked!

“Where and how is my mom, Tyavain?”

Tyavain stiffened. “I don’t know. She’s probably still in Luskan—”

“Then tell me that for sure!” The girl cut the redheaded woman off with a half-shout. “I just felt… she’s very sad, Tyavain, like… like…” she hiccupped and rose her gaze up, at the level of Tyavain’s. “Like she’s… lost and can’t find her way home. Like she’s just found something but is afraid to reclaim it. Why’s it that way, Tyavain? Where’s my mom? Who _is_ with my mom?”

The girl broke down, shivering and crying, her shoulders going up and down irregularly; Tyavain wrapped her arms around Ilwyn’s body and just stood there, holding her.

It felt like hours until the wailing subsided. Tyavain had insisted they left before noon, but she didn’t appear to be letting go of Ilwyn any soon.

Finally, Tyavain pushed Ilwyn back but only for a couple of inches; tears were still flowing down from the child’s cheeks as she spoke and Tyavain proceeded to wiping them while she knelt down in front of the girl. “I have been having some trouble with it lately, Ilwyn; the voices get so loud I sometimes have trouble distinguishing what they’re saying. I am scared.”

Malin exchanged a look with Elanee, who shook her head. What was Tyavain talking about? What did she mean with asking the _voices_?

Ilwyn hiccupped. “Can’t you try anyway? You soul is still split, so they won’t fail you; I know they won’t,” gulping down and lowering her voice to a whisper, the girl attached a shy, “And I am scared too.”

Malin shuddered when Tyavain replied, her voice echoing through the distance. “Very well; I’ll try.” Was it her or had the air suddenly grown colder, sharper and more hostile?

Tyavain knelt and remained very still, head bowed down almost in reverence; Ilwyn dried her cheeks with the back of her hand, her penetrating gaze never leaving the kneeling woman in front of her.

Malin held her breath; why was everything so _quiet_ around them? How could the world become _muted_ so swiftly? How could the tender fondling of the wind so suddenly die out?

“Your mother…” Malin nearly jumped at the sound of the voice escaping Tyavain’s lips; it was not the same it had been just moments ago; it was not one, but many, darker, gloomier, a resonance of various pitches put together. “It is an inescapable turn of fate upon which she’s entangled.”

Tyavain cupped the side of Ilwyn’s face and the voice with which she spoke was hers again. “She’ll be fine, Ilwyn. So as long as you keep on anchoring her to this place, she will _always_ be fine. That man you fear so much… he won’t harm her while she’s there.”

“So she’ll come back?”

“For you, she will. I promise you that.” Tyavain proceeded in grabbing Ilwyn’s hands separately in each of her own. “I’ll be gone for a while to be able to help your mother once she comes back, okay?”

“But…” Ilwyn’s breath wheezed, “How will I know mom’s fine?”

“You’ll just have to believe what I said before; nothing you’re afraid of will happen to Firanis while I’m gone.” Playfully pinching the little girl’s nose, Tyavain added, “Trust me, will you?”

Ilwyn nodded eagerly; Tyavain kissed her cheek and rose, settling her concentration on Elanee. “In case Firanis returns while I’m gone… I’ll be at the Southernmost edge of Neverwinter Wood to seek help from my Uncle. Ammon and Mister Sand already know it, but just in case they’re not here either…”

“I’ll tell her,” Elanee firmly assured.

Tyavain bowed her head in appreciation, “Thank you. Stay well.”

“The same to you both,” Elanee replied.

“We will,” Malin thoughtlessly said. “Until next time, Elanee. Ilwyn.”

The last thing Malin saw of that garden was Ilwyn waving her small hand before she returned to the ground to sing once again; the Spider, whose absence Malin hadn’t noticed up until now, returned to the girls side, mandibles chittering.

It had disappeared, Malin concluded, because of Tyavain. Now that she was focusing on it, she could feel the animal’s tension easing more and more with each step Tyavain took away from it.

Were tieflings supposed to be the root of such a strong reaction in an animal? No, it couldn’t be that; Malin had seen plenty tieflings riding whichever horse they wanted without any repercussions but the usual ones. No, whatever this was… it was related to Tyavain and Tyavain only.

Just in case this girl was half-mad and while she still could back out, Malin decided to ask, “What did you do back there? Did you lie to the girl to make her feel better?”

Tyavain nonchalantly flipped her hair to behind her shoulder. “Everything I said was true; nothing _Ilwyn_ fears will befall Firanis. So, in the girl’s view, her mother will be all right.”

“How could you know, then? Are you a diviner?”

“You could say so, yes.”

“Then you’ll have seen it coming that I’d ask you why you need a scout to take you to a place you know the location of and have been to several times already, don’t you?” they already were outside when the ranger asked.

Tyavain smiled jokingly but Malin could still sense the girl’s uneasiness. “I space out a lot during trips so I don’t remember the exact way.” Then, reluctantly, after a while, she blushingly admitted. “And that is also why I can never travel alone.”

“It is also why I’m coming as well.”

Tyavain, with the now untied hose reigns in her hand, spun in the direction of the polite male voice which belonged to no other than one of the Nine… Sir Nevalle, wasn’t it?

“Excuse me?” Tyavain blinked. “Who told you we wither _wanted_ or _needed_ your company?”

“Ammon Jerro told me to come with you,” the Knight explained. “And seeing that whenever I see you, you’re passed out, I thought it’d be a good idea.”

She snorted, “You took an order from a warlock?”

“It was not an order; it was a request. And he seemed fairly worried about you too.”

 _I shouldn’t have let him know I was going today,_ Tyavain thought, her brow creased. Aloud, she said. “I still cannot let you come. Where I am going, you can’t follow.”

“I’m afraid I have to insist,” Nevalle stated, “Or in case you refuse, follow you and be done with it.”

Tyavain crossed her arms over her chest and slanted her hips to one side, “Well, that’s awfully considerate of you. Might I ask why you’re so keen on following me?” Nevalle opened his mouth but before any words could come of it, she added, “And might I warn you… I can tell lies from truth like no one else can.”

 “Because I find myself concerned for you as well? The two times we met, your health didn’t seem the greate—”

“Don’t test me, Sir Nevalle,” With her half-lidded eyes and daunting posture, Tyavain’s hiss could almost be considered a threat.

The Knight contemplated the girl in front of him for a significant amount of time, shifting his weight from left to right foot in the meanwhile. When Tyavain deemed his silence too long, she pivoted and told Malin, “Let’s go.”

Just as she was about to walk away from him, Nevalle seized her wrist and said, “Wait.”

The moment his skin came in contact with hers, Tyavain froze; the taints quieted down and she could barely tell the difference between them and the natural noises around her. It was so immediate a reaction it frightened Tyavain, who, with her eyes so wide open they seemed almost round, freed her hand with a fierce pull.

When she’d finished gathering herself, she gave the Knight a look over her shoulder, incentivizing him to go on. “I think that you can help us,” he admitted.

“No, really, don’t. I’m just trying to bring you down,” Tyavain’s bitterness was evident in the sarcasm of her tone. “Who do you people take my family for? A band of thieves and murderers with no sense of what’s right?”

“No, that’s not it,” Nevalle stammered apologetically under her piercing glare. “It’s just… you know your mother and aunt never made our lives easy—”

“With reasons to,” the girl briskly added.

“Good reasons or not, they _helped_ the Shadow Thieves establishment in Neverwinter.”

“And you’re hoping I what? Turn on them and become a faithful servant of the law?” Tyavain arched a brow. “You really must catch up on your gossip, Sir Nevalle. I’m a discrepancy to the Laws of the Planes themselves – what makes you think I’d adhere to the petty laws of men? The ones—”

“My Lady—” Nevalle spoke, but Tyavain spoke above him, “The ones who sentenced a friend of my aunt’s to death? The ones who let an unwilling participant _hang_ just to appease a mob of thick-headed, bloodthirsty peasants? The ones who sought to strip a hero of her rank because she _loved_ a man whose work was precious to your Lord Nasher?” the girl laughed pitifully. “Do not tell me my aunt had no right to do what she did; were I in her stead, this place would have been _burned_ to the ground.”

The Knight’s features appeared lost for a moment; afterwards, he smirked. “And you expect me to believe you’re trying to help us with your scavenger hunt for the shards?”

“I’m not helping _you_ ,” Tyavain corrected. “I am helping someone who’s wholly more deserving of a happy ending than you, me or this spiteful little den of hungry wolves.”

“See, now I’ll just have to follow you and make sure you do just that.”

 Tyavain smiled at his low, “step out of line and you die” tone. “Which is just as well; I have changed my mind about allowing you after all.” She walked towards him and stopped when she was a scant inch away from him; standing on her tiptoes to better look at Sir Nevalle in the eye, she whispered, “You do, after all, need your reality check done.”

Nevalle frowned; she could feel his blood boiling. “Presumptuous of you to believe _I_ am the one who needs it done. How _old_ are you again?”

She wanted to laugh again at him for that little attempt at hurting her ego. “Seventeen. But don’t worry; I won’t pick up the pace so your old bones can take the journey.” She stepped down and back, careful not to touch him again, “And Sir Nevalle?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t ever lie to me again.”

 

 

“I wonder if we did the right thing with Yarija,” Ethlinn murmured, looking through the polished glass of the closed window at the ground, where Yarija was involved in a heated, one-sided argument with Brian. “She still looks human but if she grows too strong—”

“She won’t,” Shemal assured, his hand resting on Ethlinn’s shoulder. “She’s chained to us – as long as she remains so, she cannot harm us.”

The woman snorted. “Except for our eyes; how _did_ she get so _ugly_?”

“I’d wager sleeping only two or three hours a day has something to do with it.” His hand slid down her bare upper arm, stopping at her elbow. “At any rate, we don’t need another Aniel.”

She sucked in a breath and leaned back against his rock-hard chest. Warm, Shemal was always so warm… “I second that; but at least she got us rid of the Paladin.”

“I know,” Ethlinn could see Shemal’s smile from the corner of her eye, melting her to the bone. “She made me proud. Completely fallen for Rekat and she _still_ did as I asked. She’s inherited more traits from her mother than I initially was led to believe.”

“Careful, Shemal,” Ethlinn crooned. “Rekat’s a natural at surviving and she’s a natural at seducing – as those goals are not coincidental…” She let the sentence hang, licking her lips in the meanwhile. “Play around with those two too much and you’re likely to get singed.”

His free arm twirled around her waist in a firm, possessive grip. “Fire doesn’t burn me – if anything, it just strengthens me.”

Ethlinn turned her head slightly to better observe Shemal’s face. “It hasn’t eased? Not even with her?”

“She resists me. The common darkness in us draws her to me but something in her refuses to let go of someone in her past. And she has that eldritch power flowing from her…” He frowned. “Esmerelle was shrewder than we gave her credit for. She contracted Blooden to give her child those warlock powers just before she vanished; _those_ are the main reasons we had to wait so long to find her.”

“We’re still missing Matlal, though.” Ethlinn’s voice was weighed down by something which was not precisely sadness but something very akin to it.

“That was _her_ fault as well; convincing his mother to take him back home when he should have stayed with us,” Shemal hotly grumbled. “But worry not, Ethlinn. We _will_ find him.”

“I know we will,” she covered his arm with her own, relishing in the heat he brought her. “But first, we need her. If you don’t find a way to reach balance, your soul will be fully corroded, Shemal.” She clasped his hand. “I do not want that.”

The line of his jaw hardened as he spoke, “It’s his fault we’re like that.”

“It is. But we _will_ get rid of it, Shemal.”

“I know.” He nuzzled the side of her neck. “Please do not approach Firanis until I tell you to.”

“If that is what you wish, then I will obey.”

She felt his smile as he bit and subsequently kissed her throat. “I have missed you, sister.”

“And I you, brother.”

 

 

Under the cover of the trees, Trias watched, gnashing his teeth at the man who had taken Tyavain’s wrist. He wasn’t surprised by the flaring jealousy nor the scorching anger which came along with it; after all, he _was_ a Fallen deva.

Come to think of it, that had possibly nothing to do with it; his mother was still in the Upper Planes and she’d had some bad feelings in the past; the difference between her and him was that she had not decided to gather an army of fiends to wage war against the Heavens.

Yes, Trias recognized he had acted wrongly but deep down, he still thought his motivation had been right. Heavens preached for goodness yet when it came down to pursuing evil and seek to redeem it… they did nothing.

And then, there had been Tyavain. Her sole existence, like his mother had said, affronted the Laws of the Planes. But with him, she had always been so… he couldn’t quite describe it; one moment she was there and the other, she wasn’t. She was ephemeral, yet eternal, pure, but tainted, mad and wise… Tyavain had been so much and had an infinite supply of untapped power that most people would envy. However, above all else, she had been _pained_.

That the Heavens would allow the evil taints of the Lower Planes to do that to someone, to shatter her mind completely with no hopes of ever being able to heal it… He couldn’t understand it; and because he thought that way and not out of his father’s fanaticism like he’d believed at first, Trias had not been forgiven.

He watched Tyavain from afar, putting her foot in the stirrup to mount her chestnut-colored horse. In the three days they had been apart, he’d grown to miss Tyavain more than he had the Upper Planes all these years.

Trias had known he would have to let Tyavain go eventually and for that, he had been prepared; however, that he knew she would never remember him the way he remembered her had left a bitter taste on the back of his tongue he couldn’t quite wash off.

“We wait until they stop to camp,” his little keeper whispered. “Then, we take all of them out.”

“Wasn’t it just Tyavain?” he glumly grumped.

“Are you afraid three wet cats will be too much for you to handle, _deva_?” Neire scoffed; such scorn in such a small frame, Trias saw, and it only increased the bile rising on his gut “The man is one of the Nine, hence it’ll be best to get rid of him and as for the woman… do you think we _want_ witnesses?” 

Trias let out a breath, resigned; he had tried fighting the will of the trinket the half-Drow had enchanted, but the more he did, the stronger the amulet fought back with little teeth closing on his skin and a hand grasping his mind. When the time came, he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist it.

All the while they followed the tracks of Tyavain’s party, all he could think of was her hot breath on his sweat-slickened skin and her lips – ever so light, ever so tender – invitingly kissing his neck and of everything else they had shared and that only he would remember.

 

 

“Who’s the man talking to Yarija?” Firanis asked.

Rekat leaned forward to stare at the ground, squinting. “Brian. I don’t believe you’ve met him yet.”

Firanis shook her head. “No. But there’s something about him,” her voice trailed away as she chewed on her bottom lip. Rekat noticed it was something she did often when working out some problem in her head. “His voice, it’s so… calm and velvety. There isn’t a hint of roughness to it, or maybe…” she let her eyelids drop halfway as though she was looking at Brian through a layer of mist. “He’s disguising it as he does his emotions. It’s like a veil wrapped around his heart but−”

Her eyes wide, Firanis gasped, drawing away from the first floor balcony. “There isn’t anyone who can spend much time around him, is there?”

Rekat’s head jerked in surprise. “How can you tell?”

“I just… can.” She sounded as amazed as he was.

A line was etched between Rekat’s brows. “You’re right,” he said. “He says our presence makes him wither, although…” Rekat let his eyes fall on Yarija’s yapping form again.

Firanis followed his lead, brows furrowed. “Yarija?”

Rekat nodded. “He tolerates her more than most. I can’t even fathom why.”

“And neither can he,” Firanis said in a voice so soft it almost went unheard.

Just then, the sound of a door being open and shut came to his ears. If Yarija was downstairs, it could only be Bishop. “What are they blabbering about downstairs?” he asked.

Beside him, Firanis’s form stiffened and a cool breeze caressed his skin when the ranger replied. “Something about Neire and Ethlinn’s arrival; Brian’s trying to rationalize with the girl.”

“About?”

Bishop shrugged. “Apparently, she hates the other two and even though the Halfling’s gone already, Yarija still can’t abide that she’ll to have to kneel in front of Ethlinn,” Bishop blithely shrugged. “Which is why I think Brian’s wasting his time; _no one_ can ever hope to make Yarija see logic when her hatred is involved.”

Firanis stirred. “No,” she suddenly mused. “It’d be the same as asking fire not to burn a willing forest.”

“You can feel that too?” Rekat chuckled, mildly amused.

“Other people can’t?” Firanis asked.

“I have no idea,” Rekat turned to Bishop. “What about you?”

The ranger shrugged nonchalantly. “With a temper like hers, it’s hard not to.”

That cold, cold breeze lifted again at the sound of Bishop’s voice; Rekat looked at Firanis and saw her firmly pursed lips and her small hands gripping the thin stone rail of the balcony so hard the knuckles had paled considerably.

“It’s not _temper_ ,” the aasimar’s voice was an icy accusation, “Some people just feel so much, so strongly they’re not sure about what those feelings are.”

The look Bishop gave the woman afterwards both amazed and confused Rekat. It bordered resentment, but that was not quite it; rather, it was like Firanis had said something Bishop found to be so indisputably true he hated her for pointing it out.

For some unbeknownst to him, Rekat felt like an outsider in the middle of those two. It was a sensation he couldn’t quite dismiss even though it was _impossible_ Bishop and Firanis had known each other beforehand but still…  if he had learned a couple of things all the time he’d been with the Zhents was that, first, if one was careful, he could hide his past and second… there were many degrees of impossibility.

No one knew a thing about Bishop’s past – the guy wasn’t even using his real name, that much was certain – which proved his first statement.

As for the other… exactly how impossible could these two be?

Down below, Yarija had begun gesticulating madly while yapping insults at the druid. One two, three steps and she was screaming right into his face. Brian, in his usual manner, kept on massaging his temples, patiently waiting for her to shut up. When his expectations were finally met and Yarija finally snapped her dark mouth shut, he stared at her for a long, quizzical moment; just as he was about to say something, Shemal materialized from a corner.

“You are coming with me,” Shemal said, savagely clasping Yarija’s upper arm before dismissing Brian with a, “Prarg says the Luskans are dipping into our supplies again. Go take care of it.”

Rekat didn’t even register Brian’s reaction to that order; his whole focus was centered on Shemal, dragging Yarija by the arm like she was nothing more than a sack of defective merchandise and scolding her like a common-bred dog.

He felt the coolest, most soothing touch on the bare part of his forearm; he shifted his gaze down to it and saw a very small, very pale hand worriedly resting on it. “What did she do wrong?”

Firanis’s voice and touch didn’t promise fiery intensity or hot pleasure like Aniel’s – but there was definitely something otherworldly to them that irradiated peace and calm; not even the deadly look Bishop was giving them made those sensations go away.

“Shemal is always like that to Yarija,” Rekat huskily replied. “I honestly don’t know why it is so, though. Much like with you, if any of us harms her, we’re done for; she’s like a race-winning mare with no breed.”

The aasimar’s face was of incredulity. “But… why? Was it always like this?”

It wasn’t crucial information she was asking for; plus, with those wintry blue eyes so intently fixed on his and that comforting frosty feel under his skin, Rekat could hardly  have held anything back. “She was with me from seven to eleven – Shemal took her in after that and the next time I saw her, she was as she is today.”

The once soothing cold started to burn; Firanis’s hand clutched at his arm and she, suddenly urgent, asked. “Where did he find her, Rekat? Who is she?”

Everything he had frozen in the back of his mind came back in icy clumps. But for that question he had no answer, not even in the farthest reaches of his memory, so before more and more chunks of that recollection-filled ice were brought back before his eyes, he said, “I do not know.”

Hastily, the chill receded and there was only that familiar monotony he’d grown so accustomed to. Firanis was still beside him, but she was not looking at him; rather, she was frowning, looking at her wrist being crushed between gloved fingers. Firanis ground her teeth and looked up to meet Bishop’s eyes head on, stubbornly ignoring the pain she had to be feeling from that vice-like grip.

There it was again… That odd, incomprehensible animosity that made them forget he was there, standing right next to—

Rekat’s mind paused as he noticed his and Bishop’s breaths, unlike Firanis’s, clouded the air in front of their noses. Staring at her unexpectedly was the same as staring at a cold morning; Firanis was winter impersonated, he understood then, just like Shemal was summer.

“What are you?” he asked.

Bishop dropped her hand at the same instant she tried to yank it free. Firanis tenderly closed her other hand around the aching wrist and, without so much as a hint of mortification, she bluntly stated, “Cursed.”

Rekat had got the impression she was about to say more when Shemal swaggered into the room, a very crestfallen Yarija at his heels. “You three; wait outside,” he ordered.

Firanis bit down her lip; it took only a bit longer than a moment for Rekat to obey and Bishop, throwing her one last discrete look, followed soon after. Her heartbeat quickened as she stared at his back, too much like she’d had at the Vale of Merdelain. She couldn’t do that again; she just wasn’t strong enough for it and before her thoughts twisted out of her control, she held them back and looked at Shemal with a forceful smile on her lips.

“Good evening,” she saluted.

“Good evening,” Shemal inclined his head. “I trust your accommodations are to your liking?”

 _Aside from that virgin white room, pretty much so,_ Firanis wanted to say, but decided against it. Better not to anger this man, her instincts advised her. “Yes,” she lied.

He smiled, causing Firanis to deduce he probably wasn’t aware that she had witnessed the way he’d treated Yarija minutes ago. “Good. Is Ambassador Torio telling you everything about Luskan like I asked her to?”

 _Probably more than you wanted me to know._ “Yes. She’s quite helpful towards me; and it is nice to have someone I knew here.”

“I figured so, yes. She’ll have to show you around town sometime.”

“We’re doing so tomorrow.”

Firanis wished she hadn’t sounded so hurried; it most certainly had leant her a desperate face. Shemal began walking towards her in a slow, mesmerizing pace; before Firanis could realize what was going on, he was right in front of her and she was staring at the hint of a perfectly muscular torso.

Warmth closed in on her chin and she was craning her neck to gaze upon Shemal’s face. “I find myself tormented by the fact I have not been with you since you came here.” Firanis looked down at the strange heat on her chin and found it was his thumb and forefinger which had tilted it up. His dark blue eyes sparkled and the grasp on her chin tightened, bringing her head closer.

Her voice was a gasp, taken aback and gone astray, “It’s okay. I wouldn’t want to detract you from your duties.”

“My utmost duty is to keep _you_ safe,” he whispered, the combination of his breath and the hoarseness of his voice sending shivers down Firanis’s spine. “Supervising Luskan is merely correlated to it.”

“I can’t possibly imagine why I am of such importance.”

“My dear, _you_ are worth more than everyone in this city put together.”

Through that bizarre warm mist around her, a small part of Firanis screamed that those words were coming out of the wrong mouth. She had wanted to hear them, yes, but from _someone else_ ; yet, with Shemal in front of her, she couldn’t remember who had person was. “I really do not think—”

“But I do; and believe me, I am right. Not a single Luskan soul could be salvaged from the mess this city is.”

Firanis summoned the will to tightly slam her eyelids shut for a moment; she had to take a hold on herself and by ripping off that perfect painting which was his face, she found it a lot easier to concentrate. “Why?”

“Why?” his chuckle sent vibrations rocking throughout her body. “They are rotten. All of them.”

“Then save them.”

“They don’t want to be saved. Would _you_ care to try bringing someone out of an abyss if you knew they preferred to remain down there rather than in the beautiful surface world? Would you?”

Something in those words hit her hard; Firanis stepped back, a welcome rush of awareness filling her and clearing that steamy haze Shemal had invoked. “Yes. I would.”

“You can’t save the world,” he sneered.

Her chin ser stubbornly high, Firanis said, “No. But if there’s something I can change to make it better, then I will.”

For no apparent reason, that smile returned to his face and he laughed what had to be the most enthralling, melodic laugh. “You, my dear, are undoubtedly a breeze of fresh air, but come,” he offered her his arm. “Dinner awaits us.”

Swallowing down the heavy lump on her throat, Firanis took his invitation and linked their arms together. She did not know this man now, she thought, but sooner or later, she would.

And with that, perhaps she would begin knowing herself as well.

****

 

“Where are we going?” Nevalle shouted the women riding slightly ahead of him.

“Shouldn’t you have asked that _before_ tagging along?” Malin asked.

Tyavain let out a short, dry laugh. “I guess he trusts us enough not to ask!” Her brilliant blue eyes flashed at him then, bright red hair whipping across her face. “We’re going to the southernmost edge of Neverwinter Wood.”

“You think there’s a shard there?”

“No,” Tyavain’s voice, just like her stance, hardened and the horse showed its discomfort by tossing its head to the side.

“Don’t lock your legs so tightly around him, Tyavain.” Malin advised; the girl’s hold relaxed immediately, her brows trembling in confusion as though she hadn’t realized what she had been going.

Tyavain inhaled and looked at Nevalle once again. “That is not my job; it’s Sand and Ammon’s. We’re traveling on a whole different purpose.”

“Which is?” Nevalle stared at the tiefling from under his eyelashes, pushing her to answer.

Instead, she gave him another question. “Do you know why I know when someone is lying, Sir Nevalle?”

“No.”

“Should we stop for the night?” Malin barged into their conversation, one arm held towards a nest of trees some distance out of the road. “We won’t have a better place to camp so soon and it’s already dusk.”

Tyavain nodded. “And I won’t have to risk biting my tongue to enlighten our Knight. Very well; let us rest for the night.”

Once the camp was set, Malin led the horses to a nearby pond, leaving both Nevalle and Tyavain in charge of the fire. The Knight produced a flint from his backpack and knelt down in front of the firewood. Yet he didn’t need to do a thing. Across from him, Tyavain stood with one hand above the woodpile; at first, her lips began moving soundlessly; after sometime, however, Nevalle was able to distinguish a whisper above the sounds around them, a gush of words which, to him, held no more meaning than gibberish.

A small, flickering flame began rising and rising until, so suddenly he fell backwards, it mingled its dance with the wood in a cackling fire.

Nevalle still wasn’t quite recovered from the shock of what he’d seen when a much bigger wave of it dominated him once more as Tyavain skirted the fire and sat by his side, taking one of his hands in both of hers.

For a moment, they both tensed; yet the sensation could no longer linger when the girl, in a way which was so soft it was almost tender, began prying his fingers open one by one until his palm, uncovered, faced upwards.

While she spoke, Tyavain slowly traced the lines on his hand. “Chiromancy leads us to believe each individual has a uniquely shaped hand whose many lines define his past, present and future. Heart, Life, Time… the specialists in the art advocate they can know everything just by looking at the different traces of a hand.

“Now imagine that, rather than lines, there are words. Words so deeply intertwined together whose true meaning is hard to distinguish but for those who are trained to; those words which describe what you are – the _true_ essence of your being – are part of the Truenaming magic. They, like the lines on your hands, are unique for there are not two single people who are exactly the same throughout the Multiverse.”

She squeezed the middle of his hand and asked. “What do you know of the Blood Wars?”

Nevalle took a long, deep breath before he replied, “That it’s an unending slaughter between demons and devils; the standard information.”

“That is the short version, yes. And do you know why people often believe tieflings are under a curse of some sort?”

“I assume it is because they descend from either a demon or a devil?” It was a shot in the dark, he knew, so it didn’t come as a surprise when Tyavain shook her head.

“No; although that is the cause of the belief, tieflings such as I are often deemed cursed because we inherit the demonic or devilish traits of our parents. Hooves for feet, spotted skin, scales, sharpened teeth, cat eyes, horns, tails… those are what can physically distinguish us from regular humans but they are secondary; there’s a chance we might never get any of those. However there is _one thing_ which is invariably passed down to the child and that is the call of the Blood Wars. The taint.

“It doesn’t affect people in the Prime Material, at least not to the extent it does in the Lower Planes. I, however…” She looked away, struggling. “I am something like a… a hoax on the Blood Wars but not because I am a tiefling free of taints; I am such because I have them both. It is the nature of the Blood Wars that devils and demons fight each other and it is no different inside my mind; because one exists, the other musts as well.

“Every time I see someone, they begin telling me things and such is their opposition that when one lies, the other is forced to tell the truth and that is the reason I decided to study Truenaming magic. Once I was able to deem which one was telling the truth, I could convert those characteristics I was being told into the language of the Universe.”

“So you need those… taints in order to do your magic?”

Tyavain wet her lips before resuming her explanation. “I have been studying Truenaming magic ever since I know how to read. They gave me nothing but an advantage; if I hadn’t learned it, then I wouldn’t be able to use what the taints are telling me. What they say is not truenaming magic – it’s just a bunch of lines on a hand and I just happen to know how to read them.”

“But you said you were a hoax,” Nevalle looked at the fire, then back at Tyavain.

“That is because I am; the chances of someone such as me existing are so small no one ever thought it possible.”

“Then what are you, really?”

“Me? I’m not an elf, not a Human, not a demon nor a devil. In fact, as far as tieflings go, I’m not even considered a true one; tieflings are supposed to look human for the most part and I…”

“You look elven,” Nevalle completed.

Tyavain nodded. “I pass for one whenever I like so as long as I hide this,” A gentle, phantom touch met the Knight’s hip and he looked down to see the tip of a tail, colored the same way Tyavain’s skin was. “The only evidence I’m undeniably a tiefling – here in the Prime Material, at least. Once I go down in Hells, my wings pop up and that is when things get nasty.”

He nodded. “What about telling truth from lies?”

She finally let go of his hand and casually turned her palms over. “It comes with being constantly lied to. Hadn’t I mastered that by now, then I’d no longer be alive - and Sir Nevalle?”

“Yes?”

“The only reason I told you all this was so that you could stop your questions. I don’t like questions; they make the taints surface and I have trouble picking up the right answer amidst their screams. Now excuse me,” She got up from the ground, dusting off her skirt. “I will go see what’s holding Malin.”

It hadn’t even been a minute after Tyavain’s departure when Nevalle heard a stir in the bushes. When neither Tyavain nor Malin stepped out of them, sir Nevalle’s forehead and nose wrinkled.

He barely had time to draw his sword and spin to stop the blow delivered by a tall man with bronze skin and charred wings.

 

 

In the small storeroom, Yarija abruptly blurted out, “I feel weird around her.”

Rekat raised his eyebrows. “Eh?”

One of Yarija’s index fingers circled the rim of her glass as though it was trying to keep her thoughts away from her feelings. “I sense something strange when I’m around her… a… queasy little thing at the bottom of my stomach.”

“A bad queasy feeling?”

“No; a good one,” Yarija swiftly downed her water, settling the glass on the table afterwards. “She’s like… I don’t know, comfortable; the complete opposite of Ethlinn and Shemal and Aniel, who always set me on edge.” She apologetically turned her amber eyes to him. “I don’t get it.”

“I don’t blame you,” Rekat breathed. “I get that same feeling. I thought it was Genasi blood—”

“With her silvery-white skin and that stare?” Yarija interrupted. “She distinctively _looks_ like an aasimar, so I wouldn’t bet on that. Maybe we’re just imagining things, tired as we are.”

“Tired of _what_? All you do is sit around and watch her,” came Aniel’s slur as she walked right past them to grab the already uncorked wine bottle on top of a stand. “The woman’s got cold skin – what’s so special about it?”

“It’s _more_ than just cold skin, Aniel,” Rekat uttered. “She’s cursed.”

Both women stared at him like he had got the plague.

“She told me so today,” he defended himself, “ _after_ she nearly froze me.”

Aniel frowned. “Why would she freeze you?”

“That’s not the point!” Yarija dismissed Aniel like a fly on the wind. “Do you think that’s why she feels so cold? Because someone has cursed her?”

Rekat shrugged. “Maybe; do you think that’s why Shemal is so interested in her?”

“Oh _please_ ,” Aniel dramatically rolled her eyes at them. “Why are you two in the storage room anyway?”

“We were thirsty. Are _you_?” Yarija shot back.

The half-succubus pointed at the wine bottle she held in one hand. “Shemal told me to come pick this one up and try it in front of him and the Princess; said he had left it uncorked some hours ago to let the wine _open_.”

“People do that?” Yarija’s nose crinkled. “Doesn’t that make poisoning easier?”

“It’s old wine,” Rekat pointed out. “You have to open old wine and let it sit for a time before you drink it, otherwise it’ll taste like caked mud; and as for poisoning – Aniel’s tasting it, is she not?”

Yarija’s anxious lips were pursed; Aniel shot him a look of utter disdain and hissed, “Thank you for making me sound so dispensable, Rekat,” before she scurried out of the storeroom.

Yarija let out a low whistle. “As much as I dislike Aniel, I have to admit she was right; insensibility really _is_ your forte.”

“I was just stating the obvious.”

“Then do you both a favor and do the same thing regarding the relationship between you two. Either you do it, or you don’t.” From the way she half-shouted at him, Rekat felt Yarija was criticizing him. Her temper was flaring and it was flaring fast. “And do so quickly, please, because your little innuendos with her are getting on my nerves.”

She, too, left the room at a brisk face and Rekat could swear he’d heard a “Gods, she unnerves me!” from her when she was further down the hallway.

The thief rubbed the back of his head. Yarija was right about what he should do with Aniel and he would already have done what she had just told him to do ages ago _if_ he knew what he wanted. But guess what - he didn’t.

When he was away from the half-succubus and managed to think clearly, he knew the best option was to take their relationship to a strictly professional level – the one it should have always been in. But Aniel had, unlike so many other people, _seen_ him when he had not wanted to be seen and even graver than that, she had looked into his eyes.

Rekat would have been able to let that pass eventually but then the woman had got _stabbed_ in his stead and, after that, he could no longer sack her as someone who was just beautiful. Later, she had stayed with him when he had broken down because of the mad girl who had made him remember his past; and that slow, languid kiss… 

The logical part of him ordered him to leave her and live on; the rest of him – his body, his heart and his very own _soul_ – said it was all right to be with her; said it was perfectly fine to kiss her; said he would _die_ if he ended up losing her.

So far, the logical part had won over and if Rekat had been absolutely sure it was for the best, he would have followed it.

But then again… he didn’t.

Shaking his head to purge it from those thoughts, he went back to the small dining room in which Firanis had been staying with Shemal and Bishop before Yarija and him had left.

He got inside, soundlessly, just as Aniel had finished drinking a glass of wine, letting it hang upside down as a proof that she had not faked anything. Much to his surprise, Rekat noted that Shemal was no longer present; furrowing his brow, he moved to take the spot near the window and suppressed a cringe when Aniel shot him a venomous look… before she began walking in Bishop’s direction.

 _What is she up to?_ Rekat asked himself. And his doubt – for better or for worse – did not last long.

In his shadowed corner close to the table, Bishop was fuming.

It was bad enough that Firanis had half-frozen Rekat before and he had been forced to act to stop her from doing something drastic, like what had happened at the Crossroad Keep Inn years ago. He had taken her wrist away from Rekat’s arm and given her the silent _“Do not do that again_ ” look with the intent it would mean nothing.

It had turned out that, with Firanis, it was never _nothing_.

Wench. Everything she had said to him… all lies meant to keep him tamed. They had to be. Else, why would she have touched a man she barely knew so wantonly, like it was only a natural thing to do, and then had pried her hand away from Bishop like he had burned her?

At least he had not lied to her. He had kept some things to himself, obviously but everything that had come out of his mouth had been _true_ ; delivered in a way which would purposely hurt her and completely sever the bonds between them but still… true.

The bad part about all that was that his honest truths had not had the effect he had hoped for. Oh, Firanis clearly held a grudge against him; he had seen that last night when she, so frontally, had confronted him and, honestly, the blow Bishop had been delivered when she had shown up _alive_ the day before had still been too fresh. So he had done the exact same thing he had eight years ago: he had walked away on her without telling her exactly what had been wrong.

He hadn’t told the truth but at least he had not _lied_.

And to make matter worse, with last night’s detour, he could no longer deny that the ties between them had lingered on; and time had not made them any easier to deal with; if anything, they had only soured.

Bishop very much still wanted her. And for that, he was quite sure he had never hated someone as much as Shemal.

 _“I have urgent business to attend to with Pain Vasjra,_ ” he had said after a guard had finished whispering something into his ear. _“Enjoy your meal, my dear._ ”

Firanis had nodded. _“I shall. Thank you.”_

Had it settled for that, Bishop didn’t think he would have felt the urge to snap his employer’s neck; but alas, it hadn’t and Shemal had brushed Firanis’s cheek with his thumb just before his other hand closed in on her fingers; the kiss he’d placed there had not been affectionate – it had been possessive.

Firanis had looked away, blushing madly. Recalling that, Bishop felt something akin to a parasite gnawing away at his flesh. How could she be so easy? The lying, manipulative—

Bishop’s mind reeled, the temperature around him rising; he could _feel_ the heat of Aniel’s body permeating his own as she approached; there was the scraping of soft lips against his ear, the sensuous caress of moist breath… Bishop felt rather than saw her smile as she teasingly whispered. “Have you ever heard of cone snail, Bishop?”

Bishop looked at her from the corner of his eye, visibly uncomfortable. Maybe if he replied dryly, she’d go away faster. “No.”

“Such a shame… Anyway, when I was little, I touched one – don’t ask me how, as I lived in the desert – but the point is, cone snail poison… it has no cure. You either die or lay in a convalescent state until your organism metabolizes everything.”

“What does it have to do with me?”

Aniel let out a short, small laugh. “I am in charge of seeing that no poisons are ingested by our guest – they’re a specialty of mine, you see.” A cold tremor was born at the base of Bishop’s spine and Aniel paused, appearing to be savoring it. “So, in theory, were I to let something _slip_ because I’m immune to it and the poison has no taste nor smell to speak of… Well, something unpleasant could happen to our pretty princess now, couldn’t it?”

Bishop’s eyes fell on Firanis, who was now picking up fork and knife. How did Aniel know…? “You−”

“Remember that evening in Amn, Bishop, when you said there was no one you cared about?” Aniel interrupted him, her voice still not raised enough for anyone else besides Bishop to hear. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut after I left; then there wouldn’t have been a chance Rekat might’ve overheard you saying “ _It doesn’t matter because she’s dead._ ””

Bishop turned his head to take a full look at Aniel; a vicious smirk was spreading her lips and her eyes shone with barely restrained rage. “He couldn’t have heard.”

“But he did. All these years blackmailing me because of Rekat, Bishop… you never, not even once believed _I_ could get even because you believed _her_ dead.” Aniel jerked her head slightly as she mentioned Firanis to emphasize her point; she _tsk_ ed afterwards. “Ironical you turned out wrong, isn’t it. But guess what – I’m feeling quite benevolent today, so I’ll let you know that, in case she _does_ drink that wine, she _might_ not die. You’ve been through that scare once – I’m sure you can take it again. Or,” the half-succubus shrugged, “you could go there and drink it yourself. Knocking the glass over won’t work, however. Do that,” she narrowed her eyes, reminding Bishop of a deadly snake, “and besides no one ever knowing there was poison there, I’ll make sure Shemal _knows_ you’ve gone dirty on her before - and you know how determined he is to find out who has had the pretty princess before him…

“So, Bishop, what’s it going to be? Let her drink and take the chance she might die, or drink it and risk dying yourself?”

Bishop’s eyes slowly found their way back to Firanis, raising the glass to her lips; she paused and looked to her side to speak something to Yarija. Bishop didn’t hear what it was – his struggle blocked pretty much everything from reaching his ears. Firanis had such a great destiny ahead of her – surely she wouldn’t _die_ from a poison – the Gods would never allow that; but at the same time, he knew it was a lie. Firanis had never had the strongest constitution and after thinking her dead for eight years, seeing her again had been…

Bishop inhaled, trying to sort out his thoughts. Meeting Firanis again had been mostly unwelcome, yes, but at the same time… Hadn’t also there been relief hiding behind that first underlying reaction?

Bishop could almost see a sword pinning him against a wall. Drink the glass and risk his death, let Firanis drink it and watch her fall prey to the poison or knock the glass over and be dead anyway? None of his options were good.

He wasn’t really sure of what his choice had been until Bishop heard himself muttering some excuse under his breath before he stole the glass from Firanis’s hand and drank every last drop of wine.

The last thing Bishop remembered before he blacked out was that, when he’d taken the glass, Firanis’s hand had been cold…

So very cold… 

 

 

The Knight – Nevalle, as Neire had called him - dodged out of a vertical slice, setting his feet on the ground before charging back at the deva.

He feinted a horizontal slice and, at the last moment, twisted his grip on the sword, grazing the other man’s chin with the hilt. The Knight ducked to the side, sword defensively held above his head; Trias struck again with a downward swing which, much to his disbelief, was somehow blocked. Nevalle used the momentum to drive the deva’s sword away and used the opening for an attack of his own.

Trias fell back before his neck was sliced off his head and grinned patronizingly at his opponent.

This man was skilled, Trias admitted, and he was now past playtime.

In the middle of the exchange of blows, he could feel Neire telling him to hurry. Due to her brash will, he took a hit to his arm and leg; grounding his teeth, Trias focused on the fight at hand and thrust-parry-swing; sweat clung on to his skin, telling him he had been at this for a considerable while with the human man. Nevalle thrust his sword in Trias’s direction and the deva pivoted out of the way, hitting the Knight’s arm with his fist in the process.

Nevalle hissed; Trias kicked one of the Knight’s knees and it bent, making the man fall onto the ground, the tip of Trias’s sword following his throat. He pressed it against the soft flesh just enough to allow a drop of blood to seep free and the man, rather than closing his eyes like most people did, opened them wide and looked past his would-be executioner as if he was seeing someone there.

 “Trias?”

He froze. That voice… he _knew_ that voice; he knew it all too well. It was certain, yet bewildered; naïve, yet wise; young, but ages old; fraught with _taints_ , but so pure at the same time… It was a voice he’d heard so often, laughing, singing, crying… calling out his name.

It was Tyavain’s; and she was crudely being held by none other than Neire.

“I was summoned here.” The deva’s eyes apologetically turned to the rogue clasping the amulet in one hand. “I… had no choice but to come.”

Tyavain shook her head, her gaze flickering from him to Nevalle and then back to him again. “Please, Trias… Don’t.”

Her voice was like a whip slashing his soul; her eyes… those big blue eyes, transparent like water, were brimming, reflecting her fear, her uncertainty, her…

She grimaced when Neire pushed her into his direction and rashly commanded, “Finish her off, deva.”

Tyavain did not move; and neither did Trias. On one side, there were the bindings of the amulet, putting thoughts into his mind and on the other… “Tyavain,” he called out her name, “I...”

Her lips parted in a gasp when Trias fell on the floor, clutching his head. “deva, whatever your feelings for this… half-breed, remember that you _are_ a betrayer. Strike at her!” Neire persisted.

“Trias?” Tyavain called out; again, the whip lashed at his skin, and a hammer struck at his head. He didn’t want to - couldn’t fight _her_. But… his mistress kept ordering, and he… he couldn’t control his body! He caught her by surprise with a blow of his sword, and she was only quick enough to avoid it being driven into her stomach and only slashing her side instead. She called out his name in that mythical, surreal voice of hers, but he couldn’t… stop… himself!

Their gazes locked for brief moments, and his heart shattered at the betrayal he saw written in hers. She uttered something in the ancient tongue of the Universe, and stones rose from the ground to cover her skin. He struck; Tyavain defended with a small dagger, bent her knees and rotated out of his reach, the stones falling as she moved. She uttered something again; before Trias could hit her, she moved out of the way, faster than him.

“What are you doing, deva? Slay her! She’s no match for you!” his mistress’s words hammered at his mind, breaking his will. Tyavain came from behind; her turned and caught her wrist, clutching it so hard that he almost broke it.

The tiefling’s cheeks were filled with tears; he held up Celestial Fire so, with one thrust, he’d pierce her heart and grant her a swift, merciless death.

“Do it, deva!” his mistress screamed. But Tyavain… Tyavain’s gaze was sweet, merciful, _understanding_ , and to that, not even his spellbound body could bring harm.

A sharp pain invaded his stomach, and he felt blood drip down his abdomen; afterwards, her lips moved; the words she said felt familiar and yet, they were strange.

He remembered then that, upon seeing Tyavain and because of Neire’s cockiness that he would finish the tiefling without a thought, he had completely forgotten the Knight.

There were shocks invading his hands; shocks so violent that he dropped his sword. Seventeen years ago, someone had taught him that as long as one believed, one could achieve anything. And not so long ago, someone had taught him that there was always a way out, as long as one was willing to see it. But… that person hadn’t shown him the way out; she’d been it.

And there would be no Loviatar Priestess, no damned _amulet_ her tainted prayers forged, nothing that would make _him_ crumble that exit. And so, he slumped forward towards it, and it held him in its threshold of light and hope.

“Trias…” Tyavain whispered. “Trias...” She felt a trembling hand wipe the tears which had fallen off her eyes.

“No wings now, Tyavain.”

She shook her head; it was hard to breathe, so hard to breathe… “Trias…” she repeated; one of his hands caressed the back of her head tenderly, and fell to her back.

 “I liked your black wings, Tyavain.” His hand was now on her waist, encircling it; Tyavain gulped while she buried her head on his neck.

“But you’re the one who has the most beautiful ones …” she locked her arms around his waist, and felt the open wound, and the blood. “And now… you’re… dying,” she weakly noted.

If she had seen his face, she’d have seen his smile. “I am glad I am… Because if my death means your life,” he coughed, then, and blood soaked her shoulder; Tyavain hiccupped, but her shoulders slumped when Trias tightened the embrace before completing his last sentence, “I’ll gladly welcome it.”

“Trias…” she choked on her breath and hiccupped again.

“Listen to me, Tyavain.” his voice was like a frail, broken cane ready to be blown by a fierce wind, “I wandered in the Lower planes for sixteen years, after my father cast me to that place, claiming my _redemption_ would come there. For sixteen years I searched through Baator, The Grey Waste, Hades, Gehenna and the Abyss, trying to find the one which would lead me to forgiveness.

“But Hells are a cruel place, Tyavain, and I found nothing.” He coughed again, his grip on her loosening enough for Tyavain to look up to his face. “Instead, it bumped into me when I was ready to give up.” A crooked smile rose on his dry lips. “I knew you were on the brink of insanity the moment I heard you blabbering the most incoherent things I’d ever heard, and I have to admit I felt like watching you dwell with your own mind until you were slain. But when you stopped and _looked_ at me… your blue eyes had blood swirling inside them and when you gasped, I was struck down.

“Maybe it was my presence which dulled the call of the Lower Planes; maybe it was you that was shocked to see a deva there; but what I’m sure about is that you ceased your blabber and _smiled_ at me… But I was so afraid of what you’d made me feel that I began walking away… and the more distance I put between us, the harder you screamed; I tried to ignore you, to get away from you but there was a part in which your voice pierced my ears and I had to turn back.”

He closed his eyes; Tyavain couldn’t feel his heartbeat and, for moments, she thought he was dead and started crying again. But he kissed her tears away, so gently and lovingly that she thought she was going to break. “Your wings were coming out of your back. You wailed and you yelped and you screamed such intense screams that I could not walk away from you; but I couldn’t ease the pain either, so I just held you and tore the back of your dress up to let the wings grow more easily.

“Your skin was so soft, Tyavain, like a flower’s petals. Your wings grew, slitting your back, and they were soaked in blood. So, I took you away to a place where we could clean them. You fell asleep in my arms and… it hurt to look at you.”

Trias let tears roll down his cheeks. “I couldn’t leave you after that. And when you decided to come down here, I felt myself shattering. And now I was forced by my father to attend to this summon because I was _still_ a Fallen deva and I was terrified to know that a Loviatar Cleric made this woman my mistress and sent me to kill the woman who had dared to make light of Shemal. That meant _you_.”

There was silence between them.

“How…” Tyavain stammered. “How can you still be a Fallen deva, Trias?”

“I was never forgiven, Tyavain.”

She could feel his life fading, his inner fire extinguishing, as she held tighter onto him, his blood soaking her robes and skin. “Then…” she choked on her breath again and nuzzled Trias’s chin with her sharp nose.

“Live your life, Tyavain.” His warm breath on her made her tingle; he was going to say something else, but Tyavain cut him off, speaking with the gentlest tone Trias had heard her use.

“I forgive you,” had been her words and they felt like release, tasted like freedom and smelled better than the pure air of the Seven Heavens.

His bloodied hand caressed her face and his dry lips brushed hers for a second, a second he’d carry with him into oblivion and hold onto it, for it would be the only reminder he had of _his_ way out... and of a girl who was now a woman and someone he’d always love no matter what the future held in store for him.

And then, Trias the Betrayer vanished into lights of red, yellow, blue, green, pink and white, which danced, twisted and turned around Tyavain’s petrified body and incredulous face…

In that one second of their kiss, that one night Tyavain had desperately tried to recall had come back to her in a blurry haze. Trias had never mentioned it and only now did Tyavain knew what had been the source of that strange agony she had felt emanating from him after that night. She desperately wanted to tell him he could stop worrying but now… She gestured at the lights, trying to hold on to them, to get them back, but they evaded her grasp.

 _Gone_. _He is_ gone _._

Staring down at her empty hands, all Tyavain had left to do was to scream… Her wail was so loud, frantic and desperate, that it not only was heard through the trees around them, sending little birds flying from their nests; it ascended into the skies and fell down into the core of the world. And after it died on Tyavain’s lips, it still kept echoing around them.

Nevalle had been holding the Halfling in place ever since he’d driven his sword through the deva’s back; he’d done it to protect Tyavain, to keep her from getting hurt, but… what had he done? She was hurt now, and her gaze was completely bewildered, her screams burdened with madness.

She whispered something that he did not understand, but it was enough to make the Halfling’s body contract as several bones broke.

He let go of the woman, who fell like a dead lump on the ground, and returned his gaze to Tyavain. It took her minutes before she could fully stand on her feet – and when she did, he did not recognize the calm, collected girl who’d been talking to him by the fire… No, now her loose hair hung in front of her face, her shoulders were slumping back and her hips thrust forward. Nevalle saw the cruel smirk, the feral rage and the predatory manners and wondered _what_ was really happening to her.

She squatted down next to the Rogue’s fallen body; the woman was terrified to her very soul; her teeth were chattering, her dark eyes wide and her breath ragged. “If you were sent here to assassinate me,” Tyavain lifted the Halfling’s chin with her index finger, her touch delicate, contrasting with the rudeness of her voice, “it means Shemal has not got what he wanted from Firanis and believes I have something to do with that.” She smiled, almost cruelly. “Your Lord _fears_ me.”

The Rogue screamed when Tyavain traced the contours of her face. “I know you, Pidarách the Swift, Neire Silentfoot, who forsook her home and family to follow a much greater ambition. But now that you’ve failed… doesn’t that mean your shame has nowhere to return to?” Her other hand squashed one of the woman’s – Neire’s - already broken feet, “So I’ll spare you the effort of trying to start a new like and end it right here instead. And you know what?” Tyavain’s giggle sowed fear into Nevalle’s heart just by hearing it. “If there’s something the Lower Planes have taught me, is that there’s a price for everything we do.” She licked her thin lips. “You owe me a debt of death. But that doesn’t mean it has to be repaid swiftly.”

Tyavain fell back and casually sat cross-legged on the ground next to the woman. Words were formed on her lips and Rogue screamed; Nevalle heard leg bones break, one by one; he saw the woman fighting her own body as her hands grabbed a knife on her own robes and began cutting her legs; as the blood gushed forward, Neire cried in horror at the realization that Tyavain was not stopping with just that.

And all Tyavain did was speak.

Nevalle wanted to stop the tiefling… he really wanted, but his body felt like stone and all he could was watch as the woman drove the knife into her pelvis and began slicing upward.

Upward…

Upward…

Some distant part of him registered that the ranger still had not returned and he had no idea as to why it was taking her so long. No one but him and Tyavain witnessed the Rogue slice off her breasts and gouge out her own eyes. No one but them watched as the woman became unrecognizable and no one but _him_ watched the mad glint on Tyavain’s eyes and heard the brutal coolness of her voice as the woman mutilated herself.

And Tyavain never showed any pity towards Neire, not even when the Rogue was blindly begging for death; the girl only watched the woman wallow in pain and choke on her own blood; when she finally died, Tyavain picked up the amulet the Halfling had had, placed it around her neck and closed her eyes for the first time since the deva had dissipated into light.

Nevalle couldn’t breathe properly. He’d witnessed tortures; the bone-breaking was not new to him. But he’d never seen _anyone_ torture oneself to the death as he’d seen now, and he’d never heard anyone – much less a _girl_ \- speak in such a ruthless way and stare mercilessly as her victim begged for a swift, final blow.

His heart painfully skipped a beat when she opened her eyes to stare blankly in his direction, mouth agape like a fish; slowly, she slumped on the ground, gasping as she reached upwards to grasp her own head… She squirmed once, twice…

He had thought the worst had been over with Tyavain’s marring of the Halfling’s body.

As if to contradict him, her maddened screams began.

He did not know what to do; a few feet away from him stood someone who’d just been relentlessly cruel out of nothing but to get revenge. In that moment, Nevalle feared Tyavain more than he did anyone else. Would she do to him the same thing she’d done the Halfling? What was her? What was _Tyavain_?

He didn’t even notice they were no longer alone until a voice, acute in its horror, exclaimed, “Oh my Goddess!”

Nevalle’s head jerked and, running towards the howling form of the girl, was the previous Hero of Neverwinter.

Radrien Meliner.

 

 

“You don’t _have_ to take care of him Firanis,” Shemal whispered hotly. “He’s not worth it; maybe Vasjra can look him up and send him to the Temple but not _you_.” He had frowned while saying that, creases marring his otherwise smooth forehead.

Firanis lifted her chin to stare at him in the eye; instantly, his heat flooded into her, liquid and persuasive, telling her to just let go and give in into it… _No_. She couldn’t. She steeled herself, hardening her gaze and voice against him, making them inflexible. “That wine was meant for me and he was the one who drank it—”

“Purely by chance, I assure you. He’d never have done it had he known it was poisoned.”

“So the least I can do is to help him get better!”

Shemal had tried to disrupt her words. They’d ended up speaking at the same time, voices raised at the end. Firanis frowned, determinedly stomping her foot, putting every ounce of strength she had in the movement so that Shemal’s ever-present heat wouldn’t cloud her thoughts.

Under that long, ravishing gaze he gave her, she found it a very hard thing to do. He was her half-brother, true, but when he looked at her like _that_ she was on the very verge of forgetting it - and on the edge of wondering if both her mother and Eleste had been wrong.

His hand, supple and curiously smooth, dwarfed the right side of her face when he held it to cup her cheek. Firanis drew in a breath and prepared to pull away only to realize she’d made a mistake. His skin irradiated a strong scent, an addictively aggressive, kindly unmerciful spice… like… pepper? Definitely pepper, one of the kind which would burn your tongue as his skin was burning hers... and of the kind that, once in your food once, you could never go without it ever again.

All of him was focused on her, an intoxicatingly crowding male figure sending her into submission. And Gods, she _wanted_ to have him lord over her. She wanted his voice whispering things into her ear, his breath floating above her naked body and that damned hand on her cheek trailing lower and lower…

“Are you sure you wish that?” he purred, a thumb raking across her cheekbone, promising all the things she wanted and more.

Firanis was dimly aware she was breathing shallowly now; she was also aware it got worse when his free hand came up to play with the side of her neck, occasionally twining its fingers on loose tendrils of her hair and pulling, painfully and sweetly _pulling_ …

“Yes.” Her voice was a raspy, throaty hiss.

Shemal tilted her head up, his dark sapphire blue eyes two clear, lustrous stones in the middle of the tempting haze, “Yes what?” he goaded as though he’d read her thoughts and wanted to hear them voiced aloud.

She didn’t even remember what had led them to this. There was only Shemal, the perfectly sculpted man in front of her, teasing her into something they both yearned for. How could her mother have said he was corrupted? How could Eleste have said he was evil? Someone so beautiful, so warm couldn’t be like that; neither could someone whose skin was so hot and silky and much less someone who made her ache like that…

Yet, inwardly, in some god-forsaken part of her conscience – one which was _not_ welcome now – she was frowning. Something was not right; his skin was losing its blissful heat just as hers was losing its coldness and they were heading towards _temperance_. She didn’t _want_ temperance now. She wanted to flame and scorch and burn until her body was ash; she wanted the temperature of every cell which made her heat up until it was boiling just like every single one of them had with Bishop—

 _Bishop_. _How could I forget Bishop?_

Instinctively, Firanis took a step back, gently prying Shemal’s hand away from her face and sending her untrustworthy bodily urges to the back of her mind. Ilmater be blessed, she even was _wet_ and all Shemal had done was to caress her face and neck!

He was dangerous. Very, very dangerous and _that_ was the only thing she could not forget. Even though when he looked so hurt by her breaking apart from him that all she wanted was to hold him and—

 _No. Bishop is dying. Shemal is your brother._ Go _take care of Bishop._

“Yes,” she repeated, this time more firmly. “I want to see to him; I don’t want any debts between us.”

 _Not anymore,_ Firanis mentally added.    

 

 

When Bishop had fallen flat on the floor, Rekat had cursed in every single language he knew. They had been bloody _lucky_ Shemal had not been there to witness it and even more so when Firanis had lied about the bottle, saying that she had drunk from another than the one Aniel had tasted because she wasn’t in the mood for wine.

Regardless, Shemal had been furious that something such as this could have happened and Rekat did not know how Firanis had done it, but she had not only completely calmed him down, she had made him detract from punishing any of them for _something she was responsible of_.

Now, all that was left was to confront the one who’d done it and, subsequently, put his very own life in danger. And there she was, walking a few steps ahead of him, apparently oblivious to his stalking.

How come had Aniel grown to hate the aasimar so much in only two days  to decide to pull his little stunt, Rekat did not now, but she been a fool if she’d thought he wouldn’t have recognized her handiwork in that wine glass.

“Why did you do it?” he asked her out of the blue; Aniel stopped dead in her tracks but her back remained to him.

“How do you know it was me?” she asked back.

“Swelling, immediate numbness and trouble breathing? Cone snail is one of your favorite poisons when you have to share a drink with the victim, Aniel. Don’t try to fool me.”

“I do not owe you an explanation, Rekat,” Aniel replied before lifting one of her feet off the ground in a step forward—

Rekat caught her by the wrist, his hand closing down on it hard, “Just answer me, Aniel,” he commanded in a low whisper. Under his touch, he felt her tendons strain, indicating she was balling her hand into a fist.

Then, they relaxed again and she spoke, “Don’t you wonder why Bishop was the one drinking the wine and not her?” When he didn’t answer, Aniel took it as an incentive to keep on going. “I mean, Bishop’s rude but to actually _rob_ a glass of wine from a woman and then down it in one swing – why would he do that?”

“Aniel, you know Shemal’s got us by the balls,” Rekat condescendingly offered.

“But you don’t use those balls at all, Rekat, so why worry about them?” Ah, there she was, goading him like fish into her net. With a new hint of coolness to her voice, she added, “Is that why you care so much about what happens to the aasimar?”

He stepped close to hiss at her ear, “However miserable and dishonest my life may seem, I intend on making it long and go through it with the least amount of pain possible; turns out that if Firanis dies, I’ll just be fulfilling one of those two goals.”

 _And_ , he heard the unwanted thought forming in his mind, _he’d probably use you to hurt me as well_.

She sighed heavily, “Bishop… he saw me doing something and has been hounding me with it for years.

“He’s been blackmailing you?” Rekat frowned. “How come haven’t I heard about it?”

“Because that was the point? Look, it doesn’t matter; he’s been nasty to me, I figured it’s time for me to bite back.”

Rekat knew when someone was purposefully trying to change the conversation’s direction – and lucky for Aniel, he was too rushed to press her further regarding the blackmail. “Why use Firanis, then?”

Taking her time, she turned to him, a slow, deliberate smile decorating her lips, “Why Rekat, I thought you were the one who told me he thought she was dead. Proven wrong…” Her free hand came up, the index finger suggestively tracing his lower jaw. “Wouldn’t you want him to be sure she can still quite die?”

His breath caught and Rekat wasn’t sure if it was due to the blatant surprise that Firanis was Bishop’s long-kept secret or at the sudden realization that he was standing no more than an inch apart from Aniel.

Her eyes traveled down and then back up, Aniel’s body tensing as she came to the same realization as his own. She looked up at him from under her lashes and, acquiring a completely different expression than the smug one she’d had before, Aniel simply asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“You never cared for anyone but yourself so—”

“That is a lie, Aniel.”

“You left _me_!” she shouted, her hands moving to her chest every time she referred herself. “After everything we went through, you left _me_. So do not tell me it’s not a lie because it is!”

He grabbed her by the wrists, jerking her towards him. “What was I supposed to do? Let you suck my soul out while you kissed me?” He threw her arms back down. “Get real, Aniel. As much as I may care for you, I’m not letting you have my soul when I know there’s no chance you’ll ever give me yours as well.”

His words pinned her to the floor and gave him that wide-eyed, betrayed look again. “You think I was doing that out of pity? That I didn’t want it?” she was completely disbelieved. “Do you think I _like_ whoring myself to the man I’m ordered to?”

“No; but I do know I was this close,” he held his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart, “to dying that day. So forgive me, Aniel, for saying I am a little tired of playing your games. I simply see no other end to them but _death_.”

Determined to walk away from her, Rekat pivoted in one foot and began marching down the stairs again.

“I would never kill you, Rekat,” her whisper, as choked as it was, barely reached his ears.

Rekat turned to her again, his cloak swirling around him and, merging all the impassiveness he could with his voice, he replied. “Oh, is it? Because with what you did in that dining room, Aniel, I could’ve sworn that was exactly what you were trying to do.”

Her face aghast, Aniel stopped as though she’d been frozen in time. She did not move, she did not speak… in fact, Rekat couldn’t even see the natural rising and falling of her chest; that sentence had delivered a blow so hard it had literally knocked the breath out of her lungs.

Not wanting to linger for long lest he ended up regretting what he’d so intentionally caused, Rekat walked away.

Behind him, there was nothing left but utter silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Requiem: Error, Unbalance, Estrangement

**_Requiem_ **

_“Another one has joined the game,” she said._

_As a new grey piece formed in the tray, he exhaled. “And now I wonder if the black can become white and the white black.”_

**Thirteen**

_Error_

_Unbalance_

_Estrangement_

 

 

Radrien knew the place she was in like the palm of her hand and yet, she was lost. The half-elf found it hard to think with Tyavain’s screams hammering at her head. And then there was Nevalle, lackey of that accursed Nasher – why had she brought him here?

No. She would not think about that now. First and foremost, she had to get Tyavain to safety before the girl attracted wild animals.

Slowly, she forced herself to look at her niece; Tyavain was clawing at her head, writing on the floor and screeching like a mad harpy. It wasn’t the first time Radrien had seen her niece like this but still… It was painful.

The half-elf took in a steadying breath. She could do this. She _had_ to do this.

“You.” She pointed at Nevalle. “Carry Tyavain and follow me.”

The Knight looked at her, his face ashen pale. “What?”

“You heard me,” Radrien gulped down and nodded towards Tyavain. “She can’t move and neither the ranger nor I can carry her all the way to my home. You take her.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

Whipping her head to glare at him, Radrien snapped, “Does she look like she’s in the state of _walking_? No, she does not. So pick her up and carry her, Sehanine damn you!”

She heard him get up and scuttle in Tyavain’s direction; Nevalle knelt down and fearfully touched the girl’s shoulder. Tyavain only yelped louder as though he burned.

“What happened here?” it was the ranger Radrien had found at the nearby stream who was speaking. “This woman—”

Bloodied hands; eyes gouged out; breasts sliced off; a sickening cut from the pelvis to the slower stomach; not a bone to call whole… There was another dreadful ear-piercing screech; Malin looked at Tyavain, then back at Radrien. The ranger’s eyes widened, “She didn’t—”

“Chances are she _did_ ,” Radrien said, taking a hand to her forehead, sighing. “Gods, Tyavain…” She quickly moved to take a pace beside Nevalle, who was still bearing an horrified look in his face.

 _He saw it,_ Radrien concluded. _Stupid girl, what was she thinking—?_

She held out her hand, only enough to twine a lock of Tyavain’s tangled red hair between her fingers. “Little wing…” she whispered soothingly. “Little wing, it’s aunt Radrien. Can you hear me?”

The girl crawled backwards in the mud, breaths heaving through her lips. Whatever it was she was speaking Radrien couldn’t understand and she was lost. Lost…

“Tyavain,” she tried again, almost desperately. “Please look at me.”

With surprising accuracy, the girl lifted her eyes to stare right into Radrien’s. _Red_ , she thought. _They’re red._ She inclined her body to one side in order to look around Tyavain’s body…

_Shit._

As though she’d just noticed the same thing Radrien had, Tyavain hugged her knees and wailed. Radrien urgently tugged at Nevalle’s arm. “Get her now,” she commanded. “It’s worse than I thought.”

The man was confused, she could see as much, but at least he complied. This time Tyavain’s only protest was limited to a whimper; when his hands grazed her back, Nevalle gasped.

“These lumps,” he said. “Are they—?”

“Her wings; which is why we have to worry.”

Nodding, he slid one hand under Tyavain’s knees and the other around her shoulders, picking her off the floor. Radrien turned to Malin. “We can’t have Tyavain near the horses; take them to the house and wait for us there. The Knight and I are going on foot.”

Wordlessly, the ranger obeyed. Once she was out of sight, Radrien set her attention back to Nevalle. “I have no idea why you’re here – but you’re going to help me now and you’re going to be quiet about it. Understood?” When he did not deny anything, she firmly lifted her chin. “Good. Now let us go.”

All the way to her home, Radrien prayed they could make it on time. Through branches and vines, she prayed and prayed and hoped Sehanine would listen to her. Sweat clung the leather and cloth of her garments to her face and she had to reach out and warp her hair in a sloppy bun to keep it from getting in her way. The Knight followed her and even though he never spoke a word, she knew he was uneasy. After all, given the state of the woman’s body they’d left behind, he couldn’t have witnessed anything pretty.

They were a couple of hours into their interminable journey when Nevalle called her. Radrien hastily spun to find that Tyavain had begun tearing at the flesh on Nevalle’s neck with her hands, screaming as the two protuberances in her back enlarged.

“This is no good,” she muttered, reaching out for the small dagger tugged in her belt. She had to find a way out of this, but… wait. Was that _water_ she heard?

Inspecting her surroundings, Radrien remembered there was indeed water nearby and a plan was formed in her head. “Take your shirt off.”

Nevalle stared at her for a while, completely dumbfounded. “Why?”

“We won’t make it before her wings get out,” the half-elf explained. “It’s night and the animals will come to us if they scent blood. Right now, there’s a stream nearby, so rather than taking any risks later on, I’ll avoid a mess by slitting her skin open, we’ll clean the blood and dry her with your shirt.”

Unable to argue with her, Nevalle nodded. Radrien led him to the thin stream just a few feet away from where they’d previously stood. “Just lay her face down on the ground and keep her still, get it?”

Struggling before he pried Tyavain’s hands out of his neck, Nevalle did as Radrien had asked, pinning the girl’s body by sitting on her waist and holding her wrists with his hands. “Ready when you are.”

Radrien squatted down and cut the back of Tyavain’s the dress; she traced the two scars on the girl’s back which were now stretched and inflated. Her lips scraped Tyavain’s ear when she tenderly spoke, “I’m sorry, little wing.”

Then, the dagger moved and Tyavain screamed even louder.

With clean, precise movements, Radrien reached inside the girl’s back and pulled out the first wing, then the other; she held her breath, trying not to let the sickening smell of blood make her retch on the spot.

Radrien was aware that, at some point, Tyavain’s wails had been so loud she had to stop to soothe her niece. It was only when she wiped the tears off her face that she certain she’d been crying all along.

“Here…” Radrien stammered on her words; her jaw somehow wouldn’t stop shivering. “Help me clean her up.”

As she cleansed the blood away, the water was cold on Radrien’s hands. Hours seemed to pass by as both her and Nevalle struggled to clean Tyavain and, once they finally managed to do so properly, Radrien’s limbs were protesting and her body was cramping all over.

“How long until we reach your house?” the Knight asked, picking Tyavain up once more.

“Three hours, possibly. I do not know. It depends if she keeps on kicking like that.”

“Then we should go.”

“Yes.” Radrien took in a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

Nevalle must have sensed something because, with cocked eyebrows, he stated, “You’ve had to do this before.”

Radrien knew he wasn’t trying to deliver a blow with that sentence – it had been a mere thought of surprise too strong to be contained in his head but still it managed to make her shiver. When she replied, her voice was fickle, ancient and alien to herself, “And each and every time I thought just once would have been too much.”

 

 

Firanis’s head protested through intermittent flashes of pain. When Bishop had fallen to the floor, she had been scared; seeing him lying on the white bed had sent yet another uncontrollable rush of fear up her spine.

Melynia had been right when she’d called Firanis a naïve fool; despite everything which had happened, despite the _eight years_ Firanis had had to let everything sink and despite how hard she’d tried to shove it all aside… She still didn’t want Bishop to die.

“Oh Bishop,” Firanis murmured as she sat down on the bed beside him, “Have we ever got out of the big mess we’ve made?” Wearily, she brushed the beads of sweat out of his forehead with her hand. A hoarse, shallow breath escaped his lips; Firanis let the tips of her fingers trail their way down his cheeks to rest there, feeling the dry, cracked surface beneath them.

She didn’t remember it like that. Albeit always rough, Bishop’s thin mouth had never been splintered like wood on a chipping block; and never, _ever_ had it been dry; not when he’d kissed her.

Firanis got up to pour water from the porcelain white pitcher into the basin, a strange lassitude corroding her movements. The world felt so heavy, so cold right now and she was too tired to fight it.

Letting a cloth sink into the bottom of the enamel basin, the aasimar was briefly reminded of Eleste and her room of glass walls and floor. She’d seen Bishop there, the only gray among black and white and in the first time, an ache had gnawed at her heart.

Idiotic had it been, to have believed it would fade. It hadn’t faded when she’d seen the chess tray the second time; it still hadn’t now.

 _I am, indeed, a fool,_ she said to herself, twisting the cloth in her hands before placing it in Bishop’s forehead. She sat back down again and saw the briefest hint of a smile playing on the ranger’s lips.

“Please don’t tell me I said that aloud,” she breathed out.

Bishop’s eyes were too dark, she thought, when he opened them to look at her. Like she’d asked, he said nothing.

And then, there it was, not the concentrated heat of Shemal’s planned seduction but Bishop’s wild, untamed one, not even held back by the poison which ran in his veins. Firanis felt an overwhelming tenderness gripping her as the tidal wave of raw emotion washed over her. She wanted to tell him so many things but she knew he wouldn’t want to hear them; couldn’t afford to get tied down, hadn’t he told her? And by the Gods, it hurt, it hurt so much to see him in pain and not know how to ease his suffering…

“You did not have to do it.” Talking hurt her tapered throat making her voice sound small and choked.

Firanis could’ve sworn it was amusement which glimmered weakly behind Bishop’s half-lidded eyes. “I had.”

“Why?”

He attempted a smirk; the corners of his lips trembled but didn’t rise. “You know why.”

She shook her head, softly. She wished she did; at least it would allow her to think more clearly, however… “I do not.”

“Coming from someone who claimed to know exactly who and what I was?” Bishop’s weak, taunting chuckle twisted and broke Firanis’s heart. “Don’t lie to me.”

Even though Firanis tried to appear unaffected by that comment, her hands still twitched as she turned the cloth so the warmer side lay upwards; her teeth were clenched together so strongly they hurt. “I don’t know why it’s ticking you off; according to you, we’ve always been lying to each other.”

“ _No_ , _you_ lied,” Bishop amended.

“And you neglected to mention facts,” Firanis snapped back, trying not to raise her voice too much. “You never said why you left just as you won’t tell me why you drank the wine! How is that any better than lying?”

“It’s not any of your business,” Bishop coughed.

“Bishop,” Firanis’s whisper was a mixture of exasperation and patronization, “If you did not know that wine was laced with poison, then why did you drink it?”

“I was thirsty.”

Firanis held up a condescending finger in front of his face, “See? Lying. Aniel was fine, so the problem was in my glass only and you _knew_ it; so why?”

Bishop’s tired dark eyes bore into her own. “You are aware that if you had drunk that wine, I wouldn’t be here right now either, aren’t you?”

“Then why didn’t you just knock the glass of?”

“It’s _none of your business,_ damn it!” The effort Bishop made to speak above Firanis caused his throat to constrict painfully; his breaths grew thin and as he attempted a dry swallow, his eyelids shut tightly.

Almost in a business-like manner, Firanis lifted his head, pressing a glass of water against his mouth from which Bishop drank eagerly; after he was done and with his head once again nestled among the pillows, she whispered, “Is _is_ my business, much like whatever led you to do what you did eight years ago was.”

“So what? It’s your fault that it happened!” Bishop hissed as loudly as his vocal chords allowed him – which was not much, - his brow furrowed. “Have you ever stopped to ask yourself why _I_ had to leave? Or were you so high and mighty in your little world to never wonder why someone walked away on you?”

Firanis let out a little gasp of indignation. “You know I _did_ question. It should have been plain right when you came out of hiding at the Vale of Merdelain!”

“Oh really?” Bishop sarcastically asked.

“Yes really!” Firanis dryly shot back. “In fact, Bishop, I asked myself just what _I_ had done wrong to make you leave. But I can’t find a thing!” She held out her fingers and began using them to count to emphasize her point. “I never told anyone about us because I knew you’d feel tied down; I never said a word of what I felt because I knew it’d make me appear clingy—”

“Well, that’s the whole point!” he interrupted. “You never showed anything! You lied in the hopes to _keep_ me!”

If he was planning on making her even more snappish, he failed; Firanis looked at him for a while, her face suddenly blank; then, she threw her arms about herself and shook her head. “I guess the fault will be always in me – and how all my attempts to help you were useless.”

“I do not recall ever asking for your help – neither now nor then,” Bishop grunted. “I was fine the way I was – but you just _had_ to butt in, you just _had—_ ”

Much to his surprise, Firanis cut him off with a laugh. “Had to what? Care for you? Was that the problem, Bishop? That I cared enough to drill a hole in your perfect little wall of self-hatred and do that which you couldn’t do _yourself_?”

To that, Bishop found no reply. He stared at her, open-mouthed, unable to say anything to make the determined, vicious look Firanis’s face had acquired.

Luckily, he had a way to wipe it off. “What is Shemal to you, then?”

“He is the answers to this curse,” her response was direct. “Or did you think I’d come here without a reason?” She stopped abruptly, a line forming between her brows. Answers. Information. Hadn’t that been what the Alu-fiend had said the night before? That the only thing which counted in this place was _information_ and that she was going to use hers against Bishop? Had Aniel gambled that he would drink her wine? That did not make sense – had Bishop refused, Aniel, too would have died…

But Firanis had seen the half-succubus talking to Bishop after the wine had been tasted, so…

“I need to know who did it, Bishop,” Firanis insisted, yet Bishop never said a thing in reply; he just looked at her with heavily shadowed eyes for a long while. Firanis dipped the cloth once, twice again in the basin before he let out a sigh and turned away. Minutes after, Bishop’s eyes were closed and he’d begun snoring softly. The muscles on his face relaxed; the line of his slips slackened; and he looked so innocent in his sleep he almost looked like the little boy she’d briefly met in Redfallow’s Watch.

But he wasn’t like that anymore, was he? His voice had cracked and ghosts had begun haunting him. Then there were betrayals, one after the other, committed both against and by him…

Biting down her lip, it took Firanis every ounce of self-control not to start crying right there and then.

She ghosted her hand through his face, slow and slight for she feared he would wake up. Pain welled up in her chest as she remembered how much they’d hurt each other; how the merest touch, the slimmest caress, the briefest kiss had been a small anguish. How despite everything which told her not to do it, Firanis had fallen for him – and had welcomed all those little pains he’d brought her with shivers of pleasure.

She had loved this man once. Did she still?

Firanis had always had a knack for discerning other people’s emotions and wished she could say the same about her own. But alas, she couldn’t and while she was able to tell other’s feelings without wavering, hers refused to be nothing but an incredibly twisted tangle of webs and an incurable poison to her thoughts.

Why did this have to happen now? Why had Bishop drank that which had so obviously been meant for her? Why was she doing this - and moreover, why had she lied to protect all four of them? Had it been Yarija’s horrified gaze or Rekat’s absolute disbelief? Firanis couldn’t tell for sure but the moment she felt their fear of Shemal’s rage, she told Aniel to vanish and asked for another bottle of wine – after that, it had only been a matter of bluffing her way through a conversation with Shemal.

It had worked but only because that, after all these years, not forgetting about Bishop had kept her from forgetting herself in the midst of Shemal’s promising, lavishing heat.

Sighing, Firanis removed the cloth from Bishop’s forehead and went to the basin to refresh it. Once she was back at his side and had placed the cloth back on his brow, the aasimar sat back on her chair; by the time the feverish tossing and turning began, all she could do was hold on tightly to one of his hands until it subdued.

She couldn’t erase their past but neither could she skip the present. Firanis didn’t understand Bishop but at least she knew him and whatever feelings which had lingered and waited for him…

Bishop could be the person who had always set her off balance when she needed to be balanced the most, but right now, next to the devouring incognito which was Shemal and that forgetful blaze of promiscuous heat…

Through all that, Bishop had been the one who had brought her back.

When Bishop finally quieted down again, she changed the cloth and, for only a second, closed her eyes to allow her body the slightest hint of rest. It certainly felt like nothing but the second she had given herself, if not for the rays of sunlight which both proved Firanis wrong and awoke her from the light slumber.

Her first greeting was a protesting back, gained from being slumped over the bed while her lower body still sat on the chair; the second was a soft tug at the locks of her fringe, stopping at the exact same moment she had stirred awake. For a touch so fleeting, it sure was beginning to cause quite the stinging.

Willing those feelings to vanish, Firanis stood and stretched her limbs only to notice the door to her room was halfway open and Rekat was stepping through it, Yarija and Torio following close behind.

“He’s still asleep?” Rekat asked as he lowered his hood.

Nodding, Firanis laced her hands behind her back. “He woke up for a short while in the middle of the night, but that was all.”

“The poison must be fully settled now; it’s such a bummer neither Vasjra nor Brian care for spells to cure poison and diseases,” Yarija complained. “At least we’d be spared of _this_ now.”

“You expect a Loviatar Cleric to specialize in healing?” Torio disbelieved.

“According to their creed, they should also grant healing to show how merciful the Maiden of Pain can be.”

“She surpassed a decade’s quota of mercy when she healed Aniel a few years back,” Rekat sighed. “And between that summoning she pulled off and Shemal’s anger at the failure of that mission, there’s no way she could heal Bishop right now.”

“Summoning?” Firanis suddenly cut in. “Do you mean Trias?”

Rekat frowned. “You met him?”

“In the Upper Planes the day I returned and here two nights ago.” She hurriedly waved her hand, “But what went wrong with him?”

Unsure on whether or not he should part with the information, Rekat looked from the aasimar to Torio, who shrugged. “Tell her if you want; odds are she’s going to find out anyway.”

Yarija agreed, “I don’t think it’ll stay a secret too long either.”

“So?” Firanis cocked her head to one side, urging Rekat on.

“Vasjra was sent a vision through her dreams last night,” Rekat spoke briskly, almost fearfully. “I do not know the details of it, but it appeared to involve the deva being run through with a sword, Neire being thoroughly mutilated and Vasjra feeling everything as they did in the process.”

Firanis anxiously shifted in her position. “And the girl they were sent to kill?”

“I don’t think you were supposed to know about that,” Yarija smirked while crossing her arms. “Neire teased the deva a lot by talking about the girl a lot in the brief time they were with Brian and I – and it backfired on her.”

“So Tyavain’s fine?” Firanis blinked.

“She didn’t _die_ ,” Yarija told her. “But we know nothing besides that she tortured Neire in a way Shemal himself didn’t think possible.” She nonchalantly lifted a shoulder, letting it drop almost immediately afterwards. “No wonder he fears the tiefling.”

“I wasn’t aware your Lord did fear,” Torio mocked.

Lids halfway down, Yarija’s pale yellow eyes turned to the Ambassador. “To be frank, neither did I.”

“Not to mention this is going to be such a dull day, thanks to him,” Torio moaned. “Say, Firanis, you could share with us your time in the Planes – it certainly would be better than sitting around here all day.”

“Why don’t you leave?” the aasimar offered.

“I was ordered to stay with you,” Torio sourly responded.

“And I’d like to hear about the Upper Planes,” Yarija smiled thinly.

Firanis drawled an, “I’m not sure—”

“Oh yes,” Rekat echoed. “Please _do_ entertain us.”

Firanis shrugged; there probably would be no harm in telling them about the Upper Planes so as long as she kept certain details to herself. “Very well,” she agreed with a nod. “In the beginning, it was cold…”

Oddly, re-telling her eight years in the Upper Planes had been not as hard as she’d expected – but then again, she hadn’t even mentioned the harder parts of it. She hadn’t even stopped when Torio had left an hour ago to “deal with her own business,” and it was already mid-afternoon by the time Firanis said, “That was when I met my mother.”

“Your _dead_ mother?” Yarija asked, almost teasingly.

“Afterlife agreed with her, actually,” Firanis said. “Only someone who had eternity ahead of them would wait five years before telling me I am being eaten from inside out because I was not the one she was giving guidance to,” Firanis scoffed. “Apparently, there are matters more important than the well being of your daughter.”

“Maybe there are rules up there they are forced to obey,” Rekat offered. “At least she warned you – I wasn’t lucky enough to have that.”

“And look where I ended up trying to find more about it.” Firanis impatiently spread her arms about herself. “She never told me names – just that I had two brothers and a sister who were far worse than me and that the time before I became like them was ticking.”

“Maybe I should be glad I don’t know who my parents are.” Yarija shrugged. “They’d likely say the same should they ever meet me.”

“So you don’t know what you are?” Firanis asked.

“I never cared to find out about them – it’s not like _they_ did about me anyway.” Yarija took a finger to her chin, pensively. “In fact, I don’t remember much before the time I turned eleven; mostly everything is just foggy or separated by black gaps. But I know I’m mostly human, so I’m good.” She turned to the aasimar, pointing at the other woman. “You said your mother had ascended into a shiradi – she was an elf when alive, wasn’t she?”

“A sun elf, actually,” Firanis confirmed.

“Really?” Rekat cocked a brow. “You don’t _look_ half sun elf. If it weren’t for your ears and your skin, I’d say you’re a human.”

“You and everyone else; unlike most half-elves, my ears are only slightly pointy and not long at all. I’ve never met my father but my grandfather said I took after the man and after I saw my mother I was forced to admit he was probably right. What about you, Rekat? Only one foot in limbo like me or both of them like Yarija?”

“I’m not that lucky; unfortunately, I know them both.”

“You hate them?” the aasimar asked.

The thief’s smile was so bitter Firanis regretted her question the moment she voiced it. “Not the two; just him.”

Firanis cocked an eyebrow at him. “Do you remember much of him?”

Rekat shook his head. “Just that he played my mother. But I guess he got what was coming to him – for all his interest in me, once she ran back to Mulhorand, he never managed to find us.”

“What was his name?” Firanis asked.

Rekat’s mouth fell open and it stayed like that for a while, as though he had been stopped in time. Then he closed it and said, “I really do not know…”

Firanis had the idea Rekat was going to say something else but suddenly, the door to the room was burst open, only to be closed with a loud bang almost immediately after. Aniel stood with her back against it, breathing heavily. “Yarija?” she asked.

“What?” said Yarija in a tone which mingled unfriendliness with flat-out annoyance.

Aniel crossed the room and grabbed Yarija by the shoulders to drag her towards the balcony. She pointed her finger somewhere Firanis could not see and said, “Get him out of here.”

“He’s your lay, Aniel; it’s none of my business.”

“Why do you think he’s here?” Aniel’s tone rose to a high pitch and she had to close her mouth to put it back to normal. “I don’t want him here, Yarija and he won’t leave if I go down there and try putting some sense into his head.”

Yarija arched her brows. “You do not have any sense in yours – how can you put it into someone else’s?”

Balling her fists, the half-succubus stood on the tips of her toes so she could better stand face-to-face with the other woman. “That’s not the point. Will you go talk to him or not?”

For a long minute, Yarija didn’t reply; she just stood very straight looking out the balcony, eyes half-lidded. Then, she sighed. “Fine – but you owe me.”

Aniel just nodded, quickly ushering Yarija out the door. “Whatever it is; just get him back to Yartar or Neverwinter or wherever he’s supposed to be right now.”

Before the door closed, Firanis heard a conformed grunt. Aniel spun, relief written on her features as she approached the bed; bending over Bishop, Aniel asked, “Has he woken up since last night?”

Firanis repeated the answer she’d given Rekat earlier. Afterwards, the Alu-fiend nodded. “And he was strong enough to speak?”

“Yes.”

“That means the poison hasn’t settled yet – it’ll get worse for the next few days and if he wakes up, he’ll likely be delirious. See that his fever doesn’t spike either.” Aniel lifted her head, her gaze falling to the corner where Rekat was and her expression changed from simply casual to a more stubborn one. “If you want to ask, just ask,” she scathingly murmured.

“I could care less about what you do with your free time, Aniel,” Rekat nonchalantly replied.

Aniel frowned and Firanis noticed her hands almost imperceptibly tightening around a loose portion of the bed sheets. “Funny; last night, it appeared otherwise.”

“What are you here for anyway?” Rekat quickly asked, in a barely disguised attempt to change the subject.

“I think it’s pretty clear,” Aniel took a finger to her chin and looked at the ceiling. “Or did you miss the part where I asked Yarija to get rid of the Paladin?”

“Does Shemal know that?”

“No – and he doesn’t need to.”

“Are you protecting the Paladin, then?” Rekat slammed his eyes shut and pursed his lips immediately after the question left them. Firanis thought he looked as though he’d just stepped into a trap.

And when Aniel smiled, Firanis realized he sort of had. “Why, Rekat, you _do_ care,” the half-succubus half-teased.

 _They’re almost oblivious to anything but each other,_ Firanis said to herself, _something is going on between these two, but what could it be exactly?_

She didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though. Torio came through the door, carrying a tray of food; the Ambassador arched her brows and asked, “Yarija has left?”

“Yes,” Aniel swiftly answered. “Is that for me to taste?”

Torio’s doubtfulness became more evident, “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“She’s also checked on Bishop,” Firanis casually intervened, stealing a glance at a baffled Aniel. “Now can you please hurry? I’m hungry.”

The Alu-fiend eagerly nodded, “Yes, let’s.” She moved to take the tray from Torio’s hands and set it on the table. And all the while, with a strange burning spreading on her entrails, Firanis noticed that Rekat’s gaze could wander around but it never really left Aniel…

How good a thief could Rekat exactly be?

 

 

Leaving Yartar had not been as hard as Rimal had expected. Just a couple of easy lies combined with good timing and there he was on the road to Luskan, where he was certain he would find her.

Aniel… in such a short span of time, the hunger caused by her leaving had nearly driven him mad. It was like a gnawing void which refused to be filled, a need to be with her and feel her smooth curves against his skin.

Rimal was aware that such desperation, such longing for another was unnatural... but he no longer cared. He no longer _could_ afford to care. Without her beside him, there was a void in his existence, a hole in his soul! And if he had to forsake Tyr’s teachings in order to be with her, than he _would_.

For Aniel, he would do anything – even go to Luskan and risk meeting the mind witch.

Rimal’s brow creased; how long had it been since his last confrontation with the witchling? Four months? Six? Ten? Over a year? He couldn’t remember clearly, for whenever she was concerned, time stopped making sense. But that wasn’t where the problem resided exactly. If it had been time only, Rimal was sure he would have been fine.

However, when it came to Yarija Thress, _nothing_ ever made sense.

Rimal knew Yarija was younger than himself, though not by much; he also knew she was well versed in the arts of speech and that beyond that sickly pale face was an incredibly powerful mind. Everything about Yarija screamed she was something _other_ , but Rimal had never managed to discern exactly what she was.

And what made matters worse was that despite everything, Rimal felt drawn to Yarija. She was thoroughly corrupted and completely unredeemable and he still felt a pull towards the strange creature. Rimal hated it more than he hated anything else in the world because he couldn’t understand the why of such attraction. It was different than anything he’d ever experienced hence, he feared it – unlike he did the shattering force which dragged him towards Aniel.

Remembering the half-succubus, he smiled. At least he knew from where _that one_ was coming from.

He looked down at his hands and tried to feel the familiar touch of Tyr’s hand; surprisingly, there was still a small warm tingle. _Strange_ , he thought. Considering where he was going right now, one would have thought Tyr would have given up on him already.

Inspecting the map on the floor, Rimal sighed.

If Tyr hadn’t given up on him yet, Rimal was certain he would soon. And Rimal didn’t care the least.

 

 

Of what was happening in the outside world, there was little Tyavain was aware of; on the inside of her head, she wasn’t doing any better. In fact, she could tell the only thing she was aware of was that she was screaming, her hands on the sides of her head as though they could keep the two halves of it together.

She tried to fight the taints, tried to fight the madness they arose in her… but she was powerless. Tyavain was small when compared to the other two – and for as long as they spoke, Tyavain couldn’t ignore them.

Their clashes, violent and chaotic, cleaved through her mind. She clawed at them, bit at them and still they kept on and on, suffocating her under their weight. However, it was nothing compared to when they showed her Trias… The moments Tyavain did not remember, they did. They had withheld those memories from her and now that Trias was gone… they were punishing her by showing her what had happened… through his eyes.

_Trias looked at her uncurling form, patiently waiting for something which would indicate she remembered what had transpired the previous night. His heart skipped a beat when she smiled at him and said, “Good morning.”_

_“Hey,” Trias smiled back. “How are you feeling?”_

_Tyavain stretched her limbs with the grace of a wild cat. “Pretty good, actually. The taints are quieter than they were last night. I wonder why…” She looked at the ceiling thoughtfully before waving her hand. “Never mind it. Did you sleep well? I did not wake you up again last night, did I?”_

_Trias tried to disguise his disappointment the best he could. Tyavain did not remember and it was worse than taking a hammering blow to his head; it hurt more than salt on wounds._

_This, he realized, was his true punishment; but as he remembered the feel of Tyavain’s skin on his, her intoxicating scent, and that strange and excruciating mixture of pure pleasure and sweet agony… The once vivid feelings that were now becoming an ethereal illusion – and stolen on at that and yet... Trias couldn’t truly regret it._

_He brushed a lock of Tyavain’s fringe behind her ear and smiled. Such silky smooth hair, twisting in his hands, fanning over his body… “It is all right, Tyavain,” he told her. “It was not your fault._

But it had been.

And so, she kept on screaming. She screamed and she screamed in the vague hopes of drowning the voices of the taints with her own.

Then, there was a stop.

 _Child… it’s time to let the madness cease._ It was the calmest, most soothing tone Tyavain had ever been spoken to. _Come, Tyavain…_

For the first time in what seemed to be an eternity, Tyavain did not scream; neither did she bite or lash out at the person. No, she remembered the owner of this voice, even if just…

_Yes, that is good. Take my hand… Take my hand and turn away from the taints…_

And indeed, she was holding something very soft against her face, Tyavain noticed. She felt it, felt the small palm and the delicate fingers…

 _I know you,_ Tyavain said.

_Yes. Yes you do. Now come with me, child… Please turn away from this madness._

The Tanar’ri and the Baatezu protested, but against this force of good, they were almost powerless. Tyavain felt the tears welling up in her eyes and sobbed against the hand she still held. _But I cannot—_

 _I saw you, Tyavain,_ the person interrupted. _Again and again, in my visions, I saw you and I knew you would retreat so far into yourself after what was going to happen that I had to come and stop you before it was too late._

_You know?_

_I do. Just as I know that you are afraid now, dear child. But you have to know that even though you’ve done something horrible, you have to come back. You part has to be played and no one but you can do it._

_I killed Trias._

_There was someone you killed in the most horrible of ways, but it was not Trias,_ there was no critique in the person’s sentence, just… acceptance. _Trias you saved, Tyavain dear and I am sure he would not want you to do this to yourself._

_He is dead because of me._

_Tyavain, please—_

_I do not want to go back!_ Tyavain shouted. _I want Trias back and that is never going to happen! He is dead and_ I _killed him!_

 _You must be strong,_ said the person. _You have to come back. There are people who will always love you no matter what and two of them just happen to be here with me. You being like this is causing them pain, child, so please, for the ones you love…_

_No! I do not want to risk it! I’d rather stay in this madness and die than killing the ones who love me!_

“Tyavain,” it was a soothing, low voice which somehow was making its way through all the others. “Please, Tyavain, _listen_. You have to get out of the madness.” She felt the brushing off the hair on her forehead and something warm resting there afterwards.  Tyavain shuddered under her touch and sought to face the source of it. “Yes, look at me, child and listen.” She recognized a smile on the otherwise dark silhouette. “I know you are hurting more than anything but allowing the madness to consume you is not right. You have to face the pain, Tyavain; face it and become stronger for it.”

The voices got louder, professing their discontentment. Tyavain did nothing to fight them off; somehow, she didn’t have the will to do so.

“Everyone fears me,” Tyavain was surprised to hear her own tender voice so clearly. “My friends, my family, you… Even Trias did and he—” her throat, raw from all the screaming, caught, forcing Tyavain to gulp. She then looked up at the Drow, seemingly unable to continue on her own.

“Even though he loved you,” the Seer finished for the girl. “You didn’t want to come back because you feared what would happen but Tyavain, child… when you are afraid of your own person, other people are bound to be as well.”

“But Trias…”

Her mind reeled; in her awareness, the true weight of the facts was finally settling in.

He was gone.

Trias was gone.

Tyavain’s heart clenched. She felt it was filled with nothing - a nagging, consuming emptiness – and that nothing was so much it threatened to explode. Her longs refused to work and the air got stuck in her throat as her body, unresponsive, refused to let it pass.  

Then what had just happened slammed into her; it slammed into her hard.

It was as though her feelings, suppressed by the taints for too long, finally broke free. It was pure, raw emotion, strong and unpolluted, that she felt, there and then, and Tyavain knew of no way to contain it. Her whole body protested against the ongoing assault but there was nothing it could do to halt it. The pain, violent and enraged, went right past it and straight into her soul.

So, she did the only thing she could do.

Tyavain let go of the Seer’s hands, hugged her knees and cried.

The Seer said nothing. There was a time when the drow appeared to be making a move but then restrained herself. She did it once, twice… then finally, at the third time, she wrapped her arms around Tyavain and whispered, “I know, child. Hush, now and let it all out…”

Tyavain had no power to argue. Against the Seer’s shoulder, she cried until she had no more tears left and until her nose could no longer smell the exotic scent of the drow. She cried until she had no voice left, nor will. 

“You don’t get it,” said Tyavain between hiccups. “I should have died in that place. I had already accepted it and had been ready to give up my life if it meant he would be safe. But… but…”

The Seer gently shushed her. “He vanished with a smile on his lips exactly because he got to do it for you. Lest you want his sacrifice to be in vain, you have to stay strong and keep yourself from descending deeper into madness.”

“But if I stay mad and die, I won’t risk hurting anyone else ever again. I don’t want anyone to die for me like Trias did, Seer, I just…”

Tyavain felt her strength fading more and more, so she quieted down and allowed herself to just lean against the Seer for a while. For a little, little while…

“Radrien,” she heard the Seer call. “Let us put her to rest now.”

Her aunt was there. Tyavain craned her neck and saw the familiar face smiling down at her. “Hey there, little wing,” Radrien whispered. “I have missed you.”

Radrien smoothed a lock of hair behind Tyavain’s ear and the tiefling closed her eyes at the brief touch. The voices in her head tried to rise, but the Seer’s presence still kept them on a leash.

“I am so sorry,” Tyavain apologized. “Have I made you do it again—?”

“It’s not important,” Radrien said before she kissed her forehead. You have to be careful with them now, Tyavain. They should fall off soon, like always.”

That was the time when Tyavain noticed her back hurt and that she could _stretch_ and _bend_ something. She opened her mouth to speak, but Radrien covered it with a finger.

“Like I said – it’s not important. Now lie down and sleep. You have been screaming for too long.”

Wordlessly, the girl looked at the Seer.

“I – we - will stay with you, Tyavain,” the Seer promised. “Do not worry.”

Tyavain nodded and gently fell down onto the bed behind her and let the merciful, dreamless sleep claim her, always aware that the Seer held her hand and that her aunt rested by her side, smoothing her hair…

For Trias and everyone else, she would stay strong…

For Trias…

 

 

Rimal had changed since she’d last seen him, not long ago, proud and confident in his shiny armor. He still had the same chiseled face and golden blond hair but there was something else lurking underneath… Something that made his once bright blue eyes seem darker – haunted, even.

With a pang of unwanted guilt, Yarija realized this had been what Shemal had wanted all along. He’d wanted Rimal to fall for Aniel so badly the Paladin would follow her anywhere. However, if that were the case, then something wasn’t adding up; after all, Aniel had asked for her to send Rimal back before Shemal got a chance to talk to the Paladin, so…

Yarija frowned. Had Shemal possibly misjudged the half-succubus?

“If it isn’t the little mind witch…” Rimal scornfully greeted, pulling her off her thoughts. “Still hiding in this despicable den, I see.”

“If it’s so despicable as you say, then why have you come here?” Yarija said, steeling herself for the discussion which was to come. “I see no entourage behind you, no group of holy warriors – you have come _alone_ , Rimal.” Yarija dismissively looked at her nails as she added, “I wonder why that is.”

“Picked up a sense of humor, have we?” Rimal hissed.

“Not really,” Yarija passively looked at him. “Have you?”

“You seem to be forgetting that I know what you are,” Rimal threatened.

“Funny,” Yarija smirked. “Judging by your talk, I was thinking _you_ had been the one who had forgotten it.”

“Trust me – it’s not something I’d easily forget. However, I’m thinking Shemal never knew about it. Did you lie to him, mind witch?”

Yarija squinted at Rimal, not liking the superior tone his speech had acquired. “And if I have? What is it to you?”

“You know how much I loathe lies, Yarija. I could just waltz into Luskan and update Shemal on your situation.”

Yarija crossed her arms over her chest. “You’d gain nothing with that, Rimal; if anything, you’d just be burying yourself deeper.”

Rimal snorted. “Please - as if I am here because of you!”

At that, Yarija stubbornly lifted her chin, resolute. After all, there was a reason she needed him gone as well. “If Aniel wanted you, don’t you think she’d be here?”

“There’s someone else?” In disbelief, Rimal squinted at Yarija, who threw her hands about herself.

“There _has_ been someone else all along,” she shouted. “So you’d do well to get back to your Order and start redeeming yourself because _Aniel does not want you_!”

“You don’t know that!”

“Rimal,” Yarija sighed, shaking her head. “I know what I am talking about – just as I know that you don’t really want to be here.”

Rimal’s hands seized her shoulders and he shook her. “What basis do you have to say that? It has been years, witch, and neither of us knew each other—”

Yarija kicked him in the shins, hard; her shoulders hurt and, from the red marks on them, she was certain they would bruise. Rimal was staring back at her, eyes widened and jaw hanging open. “Don’t you dare say that to me,” Yarija’s voice shook, much like the finger she had pointed at him. “Pick yourself up and walk away from this place.”

She made to turn her back on him and start walking back towards the city but as soon as she’d walked two steps past Rimal, she tasted the earth with her mouth. Rimal placed a hand on her back and pulled her head up by the hair, causing her body to bend like a bow.

“You _think_ I am going to take that from someone like you?” he hissed against her ear. “At least no one here hides what they are – not even Aniel. While you? You’re worse than any of them.”

Yarija tried to squirm free; Rimal brought her head down against the ground and then back up once again. The taste of blood invaded her mouth as the lower lip cracked. “You’re not like her. For you, there is no redemption – not when you willingly sold you soul and body!”

Just as he was about to smash her head once more, Yarija twisted her body. Unbalanced, Rimal fell to the side and, as quickly as she could muster, Yarija sat on his waist and used her legs to lock his arms, effectively pinning the man down.

Yet as much as Yarija wanted to, she didn’t hit Rimal – she didn’t even scream at him. In fact, all she did was hold him still while she stared at his face. “Now tell me,” she whispered almost tenderly. “If this is how you want to be for the rest of your life. Always looking behind your back to see if someone has stabbed you there yet, never knowing who you truly know or who you truly trust.”

“You seem to get by,” his tone and smirk were scornful.

Yarija laughed and climbed off of Rimal before she kicked him in the ribs. “Just leave, Paladin. We do not want the likes of you here.”

As she turned her back to his writhing form and walked away, Yarija had gambled a great deal and deep inside, she hoped she had gambled right.

To see someone like Rimal fall… it was something she simply could not stand.

And just in case she had played him wrong, she stopped at the city doors and waited. She waited for quite a while and, once the sun had given up his place for the moon and Rimal had not shown up yet, she decided she had got it right.

Then, she saw Brian… and he was holding out a hand to her.

“Come with me,” he said.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked. Had he seen her with Rimal? Had he come to punish her for that?

“Just come,” he repeated.

Gulping down her nervousness, Yarija nodded and took his hand. It felt… strange on her own, too silky for a man like him and yet…

Brian led her through Luskan to the Hosttower in which his living quarters were located and Yarija could do nothing but follow. It was like they were one person and, at the same time, a totally different one.

It unbalanced her.

Once in his chambers, he let go of her and she could swear he was shaken. “I am sorry,” he said. “I need some warm wine. I feel strange.”

Not feeling any different herself, Yarija nodded. She watched as he poured himself a glass and, after taking a sip, pensively circled the rim with his index finger. “How old are you really, Yarija?”

Yarija shuddered, the strange haze she’d been in these past minutes suddenly broken. “I thought you knew.”

He sighed. “I don’t. I never really cared.”

“Why start now?” she asked in tone full of anger and spite.

Why indeed. He was tired, so very tired from holding everything in check… he’d always had to unless he wanted to be consumed by the mass hatred, the unyielding evil, the insatiable lust and the mindless thirst of revenge that had hung on his mind for ever since he remembered. And yet Yarija made everything which was so carefully placed _snap_.

“Just answer me,” his voice sounded dead, even to his ears.

“I’m twenty.”

His finger stopped moving and he fixed his gaze on her. _Twenty_? That would have made her _thirteen_ or maybe even _twelve_ by the time he’d first seen her! But she’d seemed so much older and the arrogant air of confidence around her had been so real… But then again, he was always confusing other people’s emotions; what he’d seen around Yarija at that time had probably been just an aura of ignorance and childhood defiance.

“What were you doing, Yarija? So young…” he shook his head. “Everyone here wanted to achieve something when they joined the Zhents. You…”

“I was born into it.” She shrugged. “Plain and simple.”

“But to only know this world… it’s unfair, Yarija, especially for one so young.” Brian wasn’t truly sure but the feeling creeping up inside him now was possibly horror. Yes, horror at a child who’d never known anything but murder and darkness and death. Even _he_ had had better than that for however small span of time it lasted had been.

“Don’t be sorry for me, Brian,” Yarija hissed between clenched teeth, a slight trace of anger emanating from her. Her anger… it was so easy to discern from everything else. Yarija was constantly angry, it seemed; it was always there whenever she did _anything_. “I am not. Why should _you_ be?”

He couldn’t help it; he asked, “How…?”

Snorting, she turned so that her profile was to him. “Shemal found me when I was little – so little I can’t remember. The first memory I have is when he first began _inscribing_ the symbols in me,” something in him told him Yarija should be feeling at least reluctant to tell him this – but instead she was completely neutral as though she was an outsider narrating the life of someone else. “I was three or two at the time; most people don’t remember anything from when they were so little but… I don’t think you can shake something so painful out of your mind – however young it might be.”

“Does that bind you to him? The painful memory, I mean.”

Yarija shook her head. “If I knew I could leave without any setbacks, I would. I could care less if I took my revenge on him or not. So no, it is not the memory that binds me to Shemal or this place – it is something else, something…”

Brian felt something in him twist. “Skin deep?” he offered.

“Yes. I’m _drawn_ to him and no matter what I’ll always come back to him.”

“You would say he completes you?”

“I would say he and I are the same.” Yarija looked away and sighed. “Really, Brian, why do you suddenly care?”

The answer left his lips before he could hold it back, “Because you are different. You _feel_ different. You are something other, Yarija, and that I cannot understand you drives me away from the constant apathy that is my life.”

She looked at him, eyes wide, mouth ajar. “I…” she stuttered several times on the word, fidgeting with her hands in the meanwhile. “I should really get back to Firanis.”

And she did.

As soon as she was gone, the apathy she destroyed was rebuilt… and Brian did not know if he could be thankful for that.

 

 

The week passed in a blur. All the days had been spent in company of Rekat, Yarija and sometimes, Torio as well and they’d done nothing but talking. Firanis had been both disconcerted and intrigued by how at ease she’d been with the quiet thief and the tattooed warrior and she had no doubts that they’d felt the same way. At night, when it had been Yarija’s turn to watch, she’d stay inside and they would talk more; when it had been Rekat, he’d stay outside the door out of courtesy and Firanis took some time to just… watch Bishop.

He had been burning with fever and, in those nights she was alone, she’d lie down next to him in the hopes to cool him down. Whenever he stirred, so did her heart; she felt a strange emptiness gnawing at her whenever she thought of Bishop dying and so, she’d hold on to him as though that would keep his soul in his body.

Were the remnants of her feelings so strong as to draw her back to Bishop? Was she that naïve - that stupid?

She certainly was vulnerable. Shemal had come once every day and, under his presence, she had waned. So close, she had been so close to just give in to him and have it easy, so close to leaving Bishop and everything she’d stood for all these years…

She heard a whimper and threw back the covers and jumped out of the improvised bed she’d been sleeping in to check on Bishop. He was thrashing again and a touch to his forehead confirmed the fever had risen again.

Sighing, Firanis climbed onto the white bed and held him close. She did not care how much it hurt her; the only thing she wanted was Bishop to get better and for him to just live… The one thing she had always wanted for him. That was why she had let him go in the Vale of Merdelain, had not? She had wanted him to be safe and well and with her and the first two had far outweighed the first one, so…

Bishop quieted down and, for the first time, one of his hands came up around her lower arm and grasped it. Normally, she would have pulled away, but after he did so, she just didn’t have the will to do it.

And she was tired, so tired…

She closed her eyes at night and only opened them when the first rays of the morning sun broke through the window. She moved and, looking up…

She found Bishop staring back at her.

He opened his mouth and, from the expression he was wearing, Firanis could have sworn he was about to complain about something; however, all he did was cough. And cough. And cough.

Firanis reached around for the water pitcher she had on the nightstand and handed Bishop a cup full to the brim. After he was done with both that one and the refill, Bishop’s voice, as dry as sand, scratched at her senses. “How long was I out?”

“A week,” Firanis answered. “Aniel was here yesterday and said the poison had begun to wear of.”

“And why are you sleeping next to me?”

“You were burning with such a strong fever that aside from leaving you out in the balcony, this was the only way to counter it.”

He snorted, almost disdainfully. “Well, I’m fine now; you can leave.”

Firanis lay down again and pressed herself closer against him; Bishop wished it didn’t feel so right. “You could have died, Bishop; for all we know, until the poison fully leaves your system, you can still,” Firanis plainly stated the obvious. She was a fool for recognizing the need to but never moving away; she was desperate enough to want more.

“Yes, but you get to live; shouldn’t you be feeling relieved it’s me and not you lying on this bed?”

“Why would I want that?”

His voice cracked in a pebbly chortle. “You’ve got to be kidding me; are you that much of a selfless martyr, Firanis?”

“No.” Her voice suddenly hardened. “I am not.”

 _Ah, lies…_ “Then why?” he insisted.

Without raising her head from the bed, Firanis touched his forehead – her cold touch almost the only thing he could feel through that blazing, feverish heat – and smiled him a smile so slight Bishop thought air alone would break it. “Because I don’t want you to die, Bishop… Not for me and not for anyone else.”

In his feeble state, Bishop found it hard to fight the impulsive surge of emotion Firanis’s words wreaked. “You’ve told me that before.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“And you meant it,” those words of surprise left his lips unbidden, before he could catch them.

“I meant everything I said.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

She sat up on the bed and cradled his head in her hands; there was only the sound of their breaths – hers soft and his labored. Bishop was not sure of how long they remained like that but at each passing moment, the realization that she _still_ didn’t want him to die sank further and further in. Was Firanis that innocent? That naïve? Didn’t she hate him for what he had done?

“I hurt you,” Bishop heard himself speaking. “I hurt you on purpose.”

“You did,” she concurred in a wispy tone, her face still in the cocoon of her hands.

“I had wanted to break you all along and after I did, I was at a loss. So I took the only way I knew out of it and sought to make you hate me so much you’d want to kill me. I hurt you with every single nasty blow I had—”

Somehow, her weak, quiet voice came out over his. “You’re doing so now.”

“It’s on purpose.”

She uncovered her face; that slender smile which still hadn’t left her lips was totally inappropriate for the conversation they were having. “I know.”

“Then just hate me already!” Bishop had tried a shout; unfortunately, his throat was so cracked and sore all he achieved was a loud whisper. He was angry that she was seeing him like this, so weak and defenseless he could barely speak; and angry, so angry that she was treating him like a child, that when he was trying to piss her off all she did was smile and agree with him!

He hated that she cared; he hated that she drove him out of balance; he hated that she’d come into his life again; and he hated – how he _hated_ – how good her hands felt on his skin.

But above all, Bishop hated Firanis the most because he had no real reasons to hate her.

She leaned down slowly until their cheeks were touching and he could see the tiny little ice crystals in Firanis’s face melting; her breath mocked his ear and the time they stood like seemed far too short then Bishop cared to admit. Her lips moved, sending little jolts running throughout his body. “Please don’t die,” was what Firanis had said, he reckoned. Then she pulled away and kissed him before settling her head into the little nest which was his shoulder.

Much to Bishop’s chagrin, he felt she’d done it in the wrong place. For in his tired heated thoughts, there was the strangest conclusion he couldn’t make disappear. Her lips weren’t supposed to go to his forehead. They were supposed to have moved down to meet his own; yet they hadn’t. They remained at the brow, their coolness relaxing Bishop into a doze he didn’t want to fall in.

He just wanted to be able to enjoy her mouth on his skin for a little while longer…

“What does he want with you?” Bishop asked out of the blue. “Shemal.”

Dazed, she looked up at him before burying her head in the crook of his arm; her voice, when it came, was muffled. “I don’t want to talk about Shemal.”

“But you know what he wants, don’t you?”

She buried her head further down. “I asked not to talk about him. Please.”

Bishop shook her off of him, anger suddenly rousing his movements. “I don’t get why unless you’re consorting with him and are just doing these things to play with me.”

Firanis sat up on the bed, a hand on her forehead. “ _What_?”

His temper flared. “ _I_ don’t know what – and I really don’t care anymore.”

Firanis leaned back and placed her elbows on top of the headboard, laughing in disbelief. “This can’t be happening… Are you for real, Bishop? Because I don’t know what hurts the most – the fact that you’re still a coward or the fact that you’re still lying to me.”

That did it.

Bishop threw his legs over the bed. Who the hell did Firanis think she was? Withholding information from him and then _laughing_ at his face, claiming he was the one who’d been lying. Such a high-and-mighty attitude of hers, looking down on him like he was as clean as the gutter. She was just like all others, so damnably—

“Bishop,” the wavering in Firanis’s voice made his ramblings cease and caused his body to shiver; with pursed lips and creased brow, Bishop stood still, his back to her; he heard her as she moved on the bed, got out of it and as she made her way around to his side, the sound of her footfalls almost as imperceptible as falling snow. One of her hands coyly closed around his from behind, then the other as she pressed the back of his arm to her torso.

From the corner of his eye, Bishop saw her head slanting down before he felt her forehead on his naked shoulder. “Do you think I’m meting out my revenge on you?”

When he didn’t utter a single word as a reply, Firanis went on, “I have no idea about what Shemal wants with me; but it can’t be anything good. And we’re already on stolen time, Bishop... do you think I want to waste any of it talking about him?”

Even Bishop, in all his stubborn, irrational anger, had to admit she was right. But he still wanted to know what was going on around him, why Shemal wanted her here, why—

Letting go of his arm, Firanis stepped in front of him and smiled.

In his anger, Bishop edged back and made a move to indicate he was about to get up. Firanis just held him by the shoulders and pushed him back. “You’re still too weak for that,” she stated.

He pushed her back. “I am not.”

“Fine.” Firanis took a step backwards. “Walk by yourself.”

Determined to prove the sneering in her tone wrong, Bishop put all his strength into his feet and propelled himself upwards; his legs cramped and his knees gave in; he was falling and could not stop—

Firanis moved quickly, holding him against her before he hit the floor. “See? You’ve spent way too long lying on that bed.”

“I do not want your pity,” he growled.

“And I’m not giving it,” Firanis said, wrapping an arm around his waist to best support his weight. “Now stop being stubborn and let me help you.”

“So you can say I owe you?” he spat. Almost instantly, her face hardened and the mask of indifference shattered.

“There are no debts between us, Bishop,” Firanis’s whisper was hoarse and shallow. “And you should know I would never hold you against your will.”

Unfortunately, Bishop wasn’t about to admit she was right; instead he chuckled, blatantly looking down at her arms around his torso. “Funny you mention that—”

She arched a daring eyebrow. “Then push me away again.”

The ranger scowled. “Put me back on the bed and I will.”

“No, I don’t think so,” a hint of a smile graced her lips, lifting the corners just slightly enough for her cheeks to dimple softly. “You need to walk. With help.”

Right now, Bishop wanted nothing more than to get away from Firanis. She felt too real, too good against him and he could not go back to where he’d once been. Only that… he already had, hadn’t he? That she refused to stay away where he’d meant her to stay…

And why was he touching her unless they were back to playing games?

She truly baffled him. And that she was not wearing anything beyond her nightgown did little to help him set his mind straight.

“And do not worry, I will put clothes on as soon as we walk to the other side of the room,” she said as though she’d been reading his thoughts. “It’s not like you haven’t seen it before now, is it?”

No. It was that his desire wasn’t dimmed by the memory of what he had indeed seen before that made it all so much worse. But he wasn’t about to admit to her that he still remembered every vivid detail anyway. “Do not worry. I’m past you.”

The sentence had the objective of making her loosen her grip – but it just made her hold him closer.

And it felt even better than before.

 

 

_The sky was painted with fear; the earth, with blood._

_He was alone. As always, he stood alone like a perennial tree amidst its weaker brethren, he must live alone._

_There was no other way he could survive his fate._

_People began walking around him, but no one noticed him. He did not want to be noticed, after all. People passed and he was still alone…_

_Alone…_

_Then came she, made of wishes and seduction. She saw him in the middle of the crowd of moving people and held out a hand to touch him. He burned. She burned with him._

_He felt the loneliness, the lassitude of his own existence melt away with her presence and being replaced by a myriad of emotions so strong he thought his body would give away if it kept on hosting them._

_She was both his life and his death; his dreams made flesh and his nightmares incarnated. Compared to her, everything else paled. She was the meaning of life, the key into infinity. And he wanted her, oh how he wanted her… but as soon as he tried to have her, his inbred instincts awoke and he pulled away in fear._

_As suddenly as she’d come she was gone and, along with her, so had the world._

_When he finally saw again, he noticed he had been left alone again but this time around, there were no people moving and the sky was once again painted with fear; the earth, with blood. In the middle of the desert stood he, made of shadows and deceit._

_He was alive, true… but without her, he was not sure he wished to live on._

Someone shook him awake. “Having that dream again are we, Rekat?”

The thief opened his eyes to stare into a face which had become familiar to him over the years: the one of his shiradi guide Esmerelle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Motet: Leaps, Turn, Combined

**_Motet_ **

****

_“Who would say t it’d take us eight years of planning for them to be halfway there again.” Her remark was cool, calculating. “The end is nearer than we thought.”_

_He looked down at the tray, softly shaking his sad head. “He is the one piece I cannot predict.”_

****

Fourteen

_Leaps_

_Turn_

_Combined_

 

 

“A couple of days away from me, Rekat, and you’re already lost.” Esmerelle did not sound harsh… Not when she was smiling so gently at him and her tone was no more than a soothing whisper.

“I’ve been longer without you than a couple of days,” he said.

A smirk crossed the shiradi’s lips. “But not ever since you re-met half-succubus.”

And there it was, the certain bull’s-eye shot Esmerelle was always so keen on performing; it made him almost want to ask her if, when alive, she’d been proficient with a bow or something of the sort. But instead of asking her that, he went for a stubborn denial. “I haven’t fallen for Aniel. But where have you been?”

“There were things I needed to confirm with certain people in the Upper Planes,” Esmerelle softly replied. “It took me longer than I’d expected and it might’ve cost you too much.”

“Nothing happened while you were gone.”

“Ah, but it did.” Esmerelle shook her head. “Rekat, you say you haven’t fallen for Aniel—”

“I haven’t,” the thief insisted.

“Then why have you been calling out to her these past three years?”

He did not reply.

“Rekat, you _have_ fallen for Aniel. Hopelessly. Deeply. Madly. The sooner you admit it, the sooner you’ll get over it.” She then frowned, tapping her chin. “But you _don’t_ want to get over her, do you? There resides the problem.”

He scowled.

Esmerelle went on, “Then again, she also possesses an odd affinity to you, does she not? Were she something else…” her voice trailed away and she clicked her tongue. “Come to think of it, you are acting strange – did something happen?”

“Just an incident regarding Aniel trying to pull a stunt on Bishop and our guest; had it succeeded, I probably wouldn’t be here now,” he moodily replied.

“Did,” Esmerelle stammered, which Rekat found highly odd. “Is she okay? The aasimar, I mean.”

“Yes, she’s fine – she wasn’t the one who drank the poison after all.”

“And you got mad at Aniel,” concluded the shiradi.

“Had the aasimar fallen flat to the side, _I_ would have died as well!” Rekat angrily defended himself. “Aniel had no right to do it, however blackmailed she has been. It just shows how selfish she really is.”

Esmerelle’s liquid, all-green eyes shimmered with something akin to pity. “Oh, Rekat… you’re truly dense, aren’t you?”

Rekat’s forehead creased as he scowled at the shiradi. She, however, seemed to ignore it.

“Oh, never mind…” Esmerelle tapped her nose, a gesture she did often when she was in deep thought. After a considerable amount of time, she sighed and turned the conversation to an entirely different direction. “How do you feel around her?”

“Whom - the aasimar?” Esmerelle nodded with her eyes closed; it reminded him a little of how she used to be when she was still alive. “It’s kind of weird, actually. Both Aniel and Yarija say she makes them feel queasy, which initially lead me to believe Yarija, just like Aniel, is a half-demon or devil—”

“She’s not,” Esmerelle firmly stated.

“I later concluded that as well. Because you see, I feel this little thing at the bottom of my stomach as well and we both know neither of my parents used to be a Lower Planes dweller.” He thoughtfully scratched the stubble on his chin. “And then there’s the way Bishop stares at her…”

Esmerelle arched a brow, “You’ve mentioned this Bishop before…”

Rekat’s hand stopped and he looked down at the floor. “One of our rangers; Kalyt recruited him a few years back but that’s not important,” he’d said those last words under his breath, quickly and dismissively. “I’ve never seen him look at a woman like that before, though; it’s like—”

“Like he knows her?” the shiradi offered, earning a surprised look from the thief.

“Yeah,” he said. “He thinks he’s got it well masked but when he’s in the same room as her, his gaze just automatically shifts to wherever she is – it only changes when she catches him looking.”

“Changes to where?”

Rekat shrugged. “Somewhere else? Although, for a moment, when their eyes meet, it’s like they’re saying something to one another and the feeling at the pit of my stomach increases and the air around me grows colder.” Wrinkling his nose, he met Esmerelle’s deep green eyes. “Why do you care so much about her anyway?”

The way she looked at him – with a lopsided smile and saddened, half-lidded eyes made her reply completely needless; but she gave him one anyway, “I cannot say. But Rekat?”

“What?”

“I do trust you; keep that in mind when you’re making a choice toward her, will you?”

“Careful; any more of those compliments and I’ll start wondering why you’re here. Aren’t you shiradi supposed to be helping the oppressed, the deceived and the unfortunate?”

Esmerelle’s features smoothened. “Ah Rekat… after so long, haven’t you realized you’ve been deceiving yourself?”

And with that, she vanished.

Rekat scoffed and sat on his bed, massaging his aching head with his thumbs. That shiradi guide of this… years and years with her by his side and he still didn’t understand why she’d been sent to help him. Sometimes he wondered if it’d been his mother who’d asked for it but it was doubtful; why send in a shiradi and not one of her own people to him? No, as much as he wanted to believe his mother hadn’t given up on him, he couldn’t hold on to that illusion.

He then thought of his father as the one guilty for the shiradi – and if hoping, even for the briefest moment, that his mother was trying to save him, was foolish, then having the smallest expectation that it’d been his father was downright insane.

Whatever had caused his mother to shy away, it hadn’t been the thousands he’d killed; no, it had been that damnable man who had done _something_ to him. Rekat didn’t know what exactly but after he’d first met his father, he’d felt something seeping off his skin and covering him like grime – except that no matter how many times he’d washed, the _thing_ had never come off.

He’d been tainted, he knew it. After he went back home to Skuld, the people who’d once adored him didn’t pay attention to him anymore; it was as though he’d become a ghost and no one could see him unless he haunted them.

For years, he’d wandered in the gutters of his hometown, stealing for a living. He’d thought life would never get better but then, the Shadow Thieves found him. At the age of thirteen, he’d joined them.

At nineteen, he’d killed them all.

The worst part about it? He remembered _nothing_. He’d fallen asleep one night and, once he’d woken up, everyone around him was either dead or dying – and he felt nothing, recalled nothing of the hours before. Yes, he’d most likely done it, but how? Rekat had tried to sort everything out but the Shadow Thieves, concluding his guilt the same way Rekat had, sent assassins in after him – joining the Zhentarim had only been a natural step towards survival after that.

Then he got stuck with a seven-year-old child as her babysitter. Threatened to be stripped of so many other things which were not his life but were almost as important as it, he’d endured it, only to realize four years later that Yarija was truly something else. The girl had a way about her that made him calmer and somehow balanced the conflicted scales of his inner self.

When Yarija had turned eleven, Shemal asked for her back and for Rekat to go to Vasjra. Two years later, he’d met Aniel.

Aniel… To think of her was enough to send shivers down his spine. She had been among the few people who had somehow picked him out of a crowd. Rekat hadn’t believed it at first; while Belken had _wanted_ to be noticed and had given away his disguise in the middle of her dance, Rekat had never moved out of the shadows. Yet, as he moved in the darkness, she’d met his gaze and both of them had grown still for a moment; whether it had been surprise or simple curiosity, Rekat still could not say.

If Yarija had balanced him, Aniel had burned down the scales. And to face that…

Rekat shook his head. Esmerelle had been saying for a long time that he had fallen for Aniel… and he had. No matter how often they hurt each other, no matter how much of a mess their lives had become, no matter how deeply afraid Rekat was that she would devour his soul… It was true. Ever since the day they met, Aniel had always been in his mind, even when he did not want her there. Every time he looked at her, his heart sped up; every time he saw her sad, he grieved as well – and when Rekat knew he had been the one who’d made her so, it was like being stabbed.

The day she had poisoned Bishop, Rekat had, with reason, been thoroughly mad at her. Fueled by anger, he’d told her some pretty rough things, finally getting everything out of his chest. True, he had, in the middle of it all, let certain aspects – like admitting he cared for her – slip, but he also had finally said that there would be no other ending for them but death.

Rekat had ignored how hurt Aniel had appeared to be. In all his rage, it had seemed the right thing to do – and it was that same rage which had possessed him to end their discussion with something so cruel. It had felt good, then, to see Aniel so stricken she could not breathe, let alone speak.

However, with all the rage gone… it did not feel great now. He had walked away in the hopes it would make it easier to not regret anything but it had been fruitless.

Truthfully, everything came down to two things: Aniel was the world to him and he was scared of that world.

Were people usually scared when they found the true depth of their feelings for another? And why did the whole feel so ominous?

Rekat did not understand it. Didn’t everyone advocate how great such a feeling was? It was supposed to make him feel good - then why did it hurt him? He was supposed to jumping in joy - why was he trembling with horror instead?

Rekat realized to hold someone so dear like he did Aniel might not be a great thing after all.

 

 

Nevalle rested on a chair, head between his hands. In front of him, Radrien paced around the room; for someone whose footsteps were so quiet, it was a feat she could make them sound unnerving.

It had been a week and still, Tyavain hadn’t left the room and Radrien insisted on the same discussion over and over again. It was tiresome.

“I still find it highly flattering that the Nine and Nasher are so concerned over me they’d send one of their elite to spy on me, I truly do,” Radrien observed, her voice heavy with contempt. “Isn’t it a waste of human resources, however?”

“Be glad I was there,” Nevalle whispered under his breath. “Had it been otherwise, I do not think your dearest niece would be alive right now.”

“If you were competent, she wouldn’t have been in danger in the first place!” Radrien raised her voice in anger. “The Zhentarim have been at your doorstep for years and you’ve done nothing to wipe the threat away! As things stand right now, you should just be thankful your last hero was smart enough to strengthen the Shadow Thieves rather than your precious Watch eight years ago!”

Radrien spun around when a hand came in contact with her shoulder. “Radrien… enough,” said the soft, grave voice of Aarin Gend. With her back turned to him, Nevalle could not see if there had been any change in Radrien’s behavior, but her stance certainly had grown more relaxed.

The former spymaster of Neverwinter kissed the half-elf on the brow and cupped her cheek with a hand. “Radrien, please… Let it rest. Tyavain cannot afford to have you angry as well.”

Slowly, Radrien nodded and shot a meaningful glance at Nevalle before she left the living room. Gend sighed loudly and massaged his temples before turning to Nevalle. “You have to be patient with Radrien; normally she already is passionate enough when it comes to Neverwinter but she completely turns paranoid when Tyavain is involved.”

“I noticed how hard it was on her when we were bringing the girl here,” Nevalle said. “Still, it doesn’t help her cause that she points fingers so quickly… and that she has to repeat this discussion every day.”

“And can you blame her? You of all people showed up here uninvited… Were you in our stead wouldn’t you fish for a trap firsthand?”

Nevalle frowned at the former spymaster of Neverwinter. The soft words the man was using weren’t enough to cover the analyzing glint in his eyes. Nevalle felt like a small animal being stalked before the predator descended for the kill.

This man was dangerous and Nevalle was not welcome here. He could not forget that.

“And would you blame me for not trusting the girl either?” the Knight carefully asked.

Aarin looked at him for a moment before bluntly answering with a, “No.”

Nevalle nodded. “She is mad, Aarin. We thought it would be for the best if I came along with the girl and kept a close eye on her. In fact, I didn’t even know we were coming here until I saw your wife.”

Aarin stared at the floor and ran a hand across his jaw once. Then again. After a couple more, he asked Nevalle, “What do you think she wanted from us?”

“From you?” Nevalle shrugged. “Information. Neverwinter doesn’t have and doesn’t want to ask you for it.”

At that, Radrien withdrew her back from the shadowy corner at the middle of the stairwell. If Nevalle wasn’t lying – and she was almost positive he wasn’t – then Tyavain had purposely brought him here. Which, on the other hand, meant that the girl trusted the Knight enough not to reveal their hideout to Nasher.

No matter. Nevalle wasn’t Radrien’s primary concern at the moment. Tyavain was and her niece could only want information on one thing and that was Luskan. What Radrien wasn’t so sure of was why the girl had risked exposing both her and Aarin in order to help Neverwinter.

Deep down, Tyavain had a good heart and, in a peculiar way, her judgment had rarely been wrong. Radrien was sure that whatever the reason the girl was going to give her when she asked for it would be a good one.

She wasn’t going to do so now, though. Tyavain was still recovering from shock and the former hero of Neverwinter didn’t even want to think of what would have happened had it not been for the Seer coming here and telling her to go find Tyavain.

Her niece had had strong manifestations of her Lower Planes heritage before – but never like this last one. The memory of Tyavain screaming and clawing at Nevalle and the mauled body of a halfling were still too vivid a remembrance.

It was only because Radrien loved Tyavain as though she were her own that she had not turned her back on the scene that day. She never knew what was the right thing to do when it came to Tyavain.

She wasn’t exactly afraid of Tyavain – not like Aarin was anyway. Although he had never admitted it out loud, Radrien knew the man she so deeply loved was always expecting their niece would turn and let the taints consume her. With Radrien, it was different. She was afraid, yes, but not of that… It was that there would be one day where she would do something wrong with the girl that frightened Radrien the most.

Realizing she had been dawdling for too long, Radrien shook her head, clearing her thoughts before slowly opening the door to Tyavain’s room. She appeared to have walked in the in the middle of a conversation between her niece and the drow Cleric.

“How long are you going to stay here?” Tyavain asked, looking up from the bowl of soup she was eating from.

“Not long,” replied the Seer. “As soon as you’ve regained a palpable measure of control, I will return to the temple of Eilistraee.”

Tyavain looked away, lifting the ashamed bowl of soup to cover half her face. “I am sorry for disrupting your duties.”

The Seer’s lips curved tenderly. “If I am here, Tyavain, it is because the Goddess wanted me to be. Why else would I have had so many dreams about you?”

“But you’ve helped me so many times already…”

“And I will continue to for as long as I can. Take all else aside and you’re the child of two of the people I respect the most… I cannot turn a blind eye to you. Never.”

Tyavain blushed to a profuse shade of red. “But you can’t be here forever.”

Radrien saw a chance to intervene. “Trust what the Seer says, Tyavain. She was always there when it was crucial – starting with the day you were born.”

“It’s true,” the Seer softly confirmed. “Your mother was nearing death when your father, Nathyrra and I arrived her home.”

“My father wasn’t with my mother?”

“No. He was helping us rebuild.” The drow sighed. “Your mother and him refused to admit they truly loved each other. The fools. You should have seen them that day; your mother calmed down the instant she saw him and Valen held her as though he was trying to keep life from fleeing her body.

“Then you were born. You cried a lot, more than children usually do, but as soon as your mother held you, your hiccups ceased and you smiled at her.”

“Tyavain, Amaya was one of the worst people I knew,” said Radrien. “But in that instant, she became someone else. When she looked up at your father and whispered _This is the most perfect thing I’ve ever done_ , there was no mistaking she loved both of you. That was something which would have been impossible in the old Amaya.

“So if you ever have doubts about your value, just think for a bit,” Radrien continued, her tone growing more soothing. “That just by being born, you have changed someone for the best.”

Tyavain blushed. “Thank you, aunt. But still, to be taking so much of the Seer’s time—”

“That was the whole point of this conversation. Eilistraee herself sent me a vision to be there for you that day – just as she did for me to warn your aunt last week. And if Eilistraee herself wants to help you…” She gave Tyavain a knowing look of familiarity. “Who am I to disagree?”

The girl nodded. “And I thank her – and you – for everything. The Gods know where I would be right now if it hadn’t been for you.”

The Seer’s eyes darkened and she took one of Tyavain’s hands in her own. The girl’s skin was peculiarly tepid. “Just keep in mind…” She added, her voice no longer warm, but somber and grave. “There will come one day, Tyavain, where she will offer you her help… And you should not want it at all.”

 

 

For some reason, the world felt hot all of a sudden.

Even though he didn’t want to, Bishop lazily lifted his heavy lids only to close them almost immediately after due to the bright sunlight shining through the window. He took in a deep breath and, after propping himself up on his elbows, opened his eyes just enough to see a figure standing in the balcony.

He had thought he’d have gotten used to seeing Firanis by now. That seeing her still made his heart sigh in relief showed the exact opposite.

She turned and, seeing that he was awake, walked back into the room with that unmistakable light breeze of tenderness. She picked up a tray from the table and set it in Bishop’s lap. “Here,” she said. “Eat.”

“I don’t get why you’re so concerned over me,” Bishop said.

“Whether you believe it or not, I do care whether you love or die, Bishop.” She pointed at the food. “Eat.”

Bishop obeyed. The linden tea was already cold and so were his bread and eggs. Still, he devoured everything. His week of delirious slumber had made him famished.

A week. He had been out cold for a week and Firanis had been there all along. Bishop did not understand why – had their roles been reversed, Bishop would have left her to the poison. But Firanis… Bishop could not come up with a single plausible reason for her to stay with him.

Except that one.

Bishop’s smirk was prideful.  “Why don’t you just admit it, Firanis?”

“Admit what?”

“You’re just trying to manipulate me again.”

The aasimar frowned angrily and her outraged mouth fell open. “Manipulate you? Is that what you think this is?”

“I cannot see why you would try nursing me to health if not for that.”

“You don’t?” She snickered bitterly. ”Well, how about you think for a little while, Bishop and revise how I have always acted toward you!”

Bishop scowled at her. “I have. Which is why it makes no sense.”

“No? Not when I trusted you when no one else did? When I gave you chances when no one else would? When I chose _you_ when there were less painful alternatives available?” Firanis cried out. “I _cared_ about you and you left!”

And there it was.

“You didn’t care!” Bishop exclaimed. “You just _thought_ you did. Hell, the only reason you chose me was because I was the forbidden one out of the bunch—”

The slap came so fast Bishop didn’t even have time to react; the pain left his face hot and stinging. The ranger blinked several times, struck speechless more due to surprise than hurt; since _when_ did Firanis learn to slap so hard anyway?

Between breaths, Firanis hissed, “You can misjudge your feelings all you want but don’t you dare to do the same with mine!”

She then pivoted on her heels and went to the balcony, closing the curtains and slamming the glass door after her.

Still aghast, Bishop watched her go without a word leaving his lips. He took a hand to his face, trying to ease the light burning. He was torn between indignation for the slap and doubt. That plain old doubt that made him doubt himself; the doubt that told him he was wrong and that he was just inventing fruitless excuse after fruitless excuse to hate Firanis.

It also did not help when he still couldn’t leave the room. Aniel’s toy poison had weakened his body to a point that just standing was proving to be a challenge.

When Bishop was sure Firanis wasn’t coming out of that balcony any time soon, he begun to exercise his legs while sitting on the bed, each sequence of stretch and bending more tiring than the last.

A couple of hours later, the door opened and Yarija stepped inside the room.

“Where’s Firanis?” she asked.

“Balcony. Where else?”

Without acknowledging Bishop further, the young woman slid the curtains open just enough to open the door and slip outside. Firanis was there, staring at her as she leaned back on the balustrade with her arms crossed across her chest.

“I can tell that you’re worried,” she immediately observed.

Yarija’s eyes widened and she stammered, “You can?” She tilted her head down, shaking it. “For you to notice it, it really must be obvious.”

“No, I’m just used to reading people. Some of my friends are not very talkative.”

“Still, you’ve known me for barely more than a week.”

“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but you leave the strongest first impression on people.”

Yarija frowned, seemingly intrigued. “Oh? Such as?”

Firanis looked at her from under her eyebrows, then smiled. “You… feel strongly.”

Yarija snickered. “Most people usually just say I’m overly angry.”

“And they would be right. You _are_ overly angry but that’s not just it. You’re the sort of person who doesn’t do things halfway and because of the environment you’re in, it leads to you being angry all the time.”

“You had that whole _first_ impression of me?” Yarija’s tone was high with disbelief. “No wonder Shemal wants you here. You’re observant.”

“Perhaps. Because _then_ there’s my second impression,” Firanis continued. “And it tells me you use this little trait of yours to hide something.” She turned to Yarija and held both of the other woman’s calloused hands in her own. Yarija’s skin had an odd feeling to it, much like the entire person. “I’ve noticed you have a remarkable insight on the world. You are not just smart, Yarija. In fact, to label you as merely intelligent would be doing you an injustice.”

Yarija hesitated. Every fiber of her being was too used to being careful when dealing with people for her to let her guard down thus. However, she had to tell someone. She needed advice and this was probably the only person in all of Luskan who could give her something worth listening to.

“You have to promise you will not tell _anyone_ about this,” Yarija firmly whispered. “If you do, I will tell everyone about your daughter.”

Firanis looked at her quizzically. Then, she inclined her head forward. “My lips are sealed.”

Yarija inhaled deeply, as though breathing would give her courage. “I do not know why I’m telling you this,” she finally blabbed. “Maybe it’s because I know you’re not going to tell me to get it over with and might actually give me a real answer. Or, you know…” She shrugged. “Laugh at my face. These people here are not who I’d use for advice if I did not want to bring a Paladin down.”

“So this has to do with what Aniel asked you to do last week.”

Yarija coyly lowered her head. “Yes.”

“Is it because you have feelings for him?” Firanis asked.

With a sigh, Yarija revealed, “Rimal and I go way back. The only reason Aniel had to be sent to deal with him was because of me.

“Rimal… he was a bit of a fanatic. You either were truly good, or truly evil; there was no middle term for him. He knew who I worked for and so, he sought to destroy me. Needless to say, he failed but he also uncovered…” Yarija paused and bit down her tongue. “Lots of things. Which is why Aniel was sent.

“Her goal was to make Rimal fall so far down he would never be able to climb up. She got him obsessed with her and, by having him following her here, she proved that she was this close,” Yarija held her index finger and thumb just a hair’s breadth apart, “to turning him to our side.”

“Except that she does not want him here,” Firanis stated.

“No. I think that was something Shemal did not predict. Regardless, Rimal is no longer the man he was and, for some reason, it…” Yarija sighed. “It saddens me. I think the world lost something because Aniel changed Rimal so.”

“You can’t change someone, Yarija,” Firanis softly said.

“So you’ve claimed,” the other woman sighed. “But I don’t think it’s true. I mean… people are not immutable.”

“No – but unless the person herself doesn’t want to change, it’s useless to try. I’ve been there and when I realized all I could do was make that person see he could go back to what he truly was, it was too late.”

“So you expect me to sit back and watch?” Yarija was nearly screeching, her face twisted with emotion.

Firanis shook her head and smiled tenderly. Yarija couldn’t help but think it was at a memory and not at the present. “No. You’re a brash woman Yarija and are trying to take immediate action when first you should be trying to accept what that person has become.”

Yarija pursed her lips. “Perhaps. But I cannot accept that someone like Rimal would be willing to throw everything he’s worked for his entire life for Aniel.”

“Maybe the only reason he was so ready to do so was that, if he’s already thrown everything away, he might as well get what he paid for. Or, you know… he’s just making a storm in a glass of water.”

“You think he might be overreacting?”

“I don’t know this Rimal to say so for certain. It’s possible that he truly cares for Aniel – just as it is possible that he is yet to realize he’s been manipulated and that his feelings belong somewhere else. Whatever it is, it’s only up to Rimal to change it or not.”

Yarija was silenced. She had known Rimal for years and before Aniel he had refused to believe anything evil could be worth pursuing.

They had a game, Yarija and Rimal. A game of cat and mice she had got a bit too fond of playing – and that was the one reason why Rimal had to fall. Yarija screwed up and ended up showing Rimal something not even Shemal was aware of. After that, Rimal had been even more determined to run the Zhentarim out of Yartar.

It had made her wonder if she was truly that bad.

Suddenly, she looked at the aasimar. “Can I ask you something, Firanis?”

“Only if you let me ask you something in return.”

Yarija shrugged. “As long as I’m allowed to answer.”

“Aniel… why exactly didn’t she want to meet with Rimal? Does she have someone else she’s interested into?”

Yarija’s lips slyly curved upward. “My, you _are_ observant.”

“So she _does_ have someone.”

“Not exactly. Their relationship is… a bit dysfunctional, to say the least.” Yarija rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath. “It would surely help if they weren’t so stubborn. But no! They won’t even admit to it.” She turned to Firanis. “How did you find out?”

“Aniel and I had an… encounter. She does not mask her emotions well.” The aasimar then frowned and took a hand to her chin. “Come to think of it, when he’s around her, neither does Rekat.”

“No.” Yarija declared. “He does not. They’re very touchy when it comes to one another. Everyone knows that.”

Firanis inclined her head to the side and sighed, seemingly lost in deep thought. A moment after, she said, “Ask what you will, then.”

Yarija nodded. “After what happened and all the time you’ve spent watching over him… Have you grown fond of Bishop?”

“In this short while? No.” Surprisingly, Firanis wasn’t exactly giving Yarija a wrong answer. “Bishop has an abrasive personality. It’d take much longer for me to grow fond of him.”

“So you’re saying that you could indeed grow to like him?”

Firanis pursed her lips. Did Yarija know anything about her past and was now trying to see if Firanis would let something slip? No, that did not seem the case… Yarija seemed sincere in her questions and perhaps there was nothing but curiosity to them. But still…

“If in that time I saw something in him besides his rough demeanor, yes, I could grow to like him. Why?”

“I…” Yarija gulped down, appearing to have become slightly fearful. She took in a deep breath and looked at Firanis straight in the eye and confessed, “I want someone to do that for me. But… I ruin things most of the time. Shemal is right on that one.”

“If you ask me, I think Shemal is a fool to disregard you so,” Firanis said with determination. “You would be an invaluable asset to anyone, Yarija.”

Yarija brought her eyebrows together. There was something in the way Firanis was looking at her, something in the way Firanis had spoken that sentence… “Are you trying to recruit me?”

The aasimar nonchalantly shrugged. “I’m just saying. _Anyone_ would be lucky to have you on their side.”

Yarija nodded and both her and Firanis turned to stare at the sunset-painted Luskan.

No wonder Shemal wanted Firanis on his side so badly. There was something about her, something that made people strangely at ease that Shemal undoubtedly wanted to put his hands on. She had spent enough time with Firanis to wage that was the one main trait which spiked so much of Shemal’s interest. 

Shemal. It always came down to what Shemal wanted or what he wished to destroy. As odd as it might seem, despite everything Shemal had done to her, Yarija had never thought about leaving; Shemal had always had some undeniable form of power over her. But now, for the first time in her life, Yarija found herself considering it.

 

 

The girl sat, spider on one side, Paladin in the other and just sang. Lenya had heard she usually did so at this hour but had never bothered to come. She just did not believe what the rumors had told.

Now she had to admit she’d been wrong. Even for Lenya, this was some of the most beautiful singing she had heard in her entire life. Which was saying a lot, since there weren’t many things which were beautiful to her.

If she had a soul, she was certain it would have been touched by now.

It baffled Lenya how the offspring of a person as corroded and as bitter as Bishop could have ended up with such a pure voice. Then again, the girl had been born in the Upper Planes and perhaps her birthplace had influenced her voice thusly.

She was certain, however, that it had not touched her physic in any way. Firanis could hide it all she wanted but anyone who had known her eight years ago would be able to tell she had been involved with Bishop. The girl was, after all, the spitting image of her father.

Then, it hit her.

Shemal had always been one step ahead of everything. His intelligence had been flawless and yet, _he did now know who Bishop was_! No one in Luskan did. Not Vasjra, not Kalyt, not Brian… Not even Yarija and that one had always managed to figure everything out!

And still, despite having informants placed all over the Sword Coast, despite having his trusted followers background check everyone who ever enlisted the Zhentarim, despite all his channels, Bishop was still very much alive and Shemal had no idea at all that the man he had so intensely vowed to dismember had been right next to him all along.

Lenya clicked her heels and left. Someone would be very happy to hear about this. Very happy indeed.

 

 

_“I think it’s time you met our little sister, Ethlinn. Show her what she truly is.”_

She had been itching to hear Shemal say that sentence. To finally be allowed to speak with another one of them – especially one who was so different – had Ethlinn nearly bursting with anticipation. So she had taken the Inner Mirror and almost cheerfully sauntered all the way to the Hosttower where Firanis was being kept.

After this, finding Matlal would be easier than ever. And then, at last, this constant monotony would end!

Rekat was at the door and his eyes bulged out of their sockets when he saw who had just come in. “Ethlinn,” he dryly said.

She ignored him and looked at the bed, where the ranger who had drunk the poison lay. He was handsome, in a rugged, animalistic way, but Ethlinn found nothing out of the ordinary about him. He was just another pawn.

Then, on the balcony, she saw her.

As though mesmerized, Ethlinn approached Firanis. Oh, but she was a pretty thing indeed! The Upper Planes must’ve rubbed off on her quite well, because Firanis’s skin had a subtle, ethereal glow about it, a trait neither Ethlinn nor Shemal had inherited from their father.

“Good afternoon,” her sister greeted. “Who are you?”

Ethlinn smiled her best smile. “I am Ethlinn, dear sister.”

Recognition – although Ethlinn did not know where from – flashed in Firanis’s face. “Where is the last one, then?”

“Matlal? I do not know.” Ethlinn’s tone became tinged with sadness. “But hopefully you will help me find him.”

“How so?”

As she’d asked that, her eyes, of the color of morning mist, had been wide and innocent. Oh, how Ethlinn wanted that purity, that brightness of spirit her younger sister had! Surely Shemal wouldn’t mind if she took a bit while she did what he’d asked her to do. After all, the one thing which bound them – the curse – would still remain.

Plus… she wouldn’t kill her little sister. She was much too precious for that.

“The three of us will attract him. If we stick together, it is inevitable that he will come to us,” Ethlinn told Firanis. “We call to each other, don’t you see? And the closer we are, the stronger the calling is.”

“But I have been said I’m not exactly like you,” said Firanis.

“By who?”

“People in the Upper Planes. I won’t tell names.”

Ethlinn harrumphed. “Let me guess… They told you you could end the curse. Am I right?”

She had to give her little sister credit. She did not flinch. “Yes.”

“It’s a lie. The curse is eternal. You can pass it into another one of your blood but until you die, it stays with you. In fact, since the curse is attached to the soul, I am not even sure death will be your release, but rather, it will be just another phase. Once the curse has devoured your soul, you will become a part of it, forever chained, never even able to hope you will be free of it one day.”

“It might not be so. If there’s a cure—”

“There is no cure. We have to fight it, little sister, and we have to fight it together. The four of us. Because we are all alike – and I can prove it.” She handed Firanis the mirror and whispered, her voice slick and sweet, “I think you should look into it, Firanis. Look into it and see.”

Firanis warily looked at the mirror. “What is that?”

“And artifact Shemal and I found long ago. It shows us our inner selves.” Ethlinn shrugged. “If you truly think you’re so different from us, then you shouldn’t be afraid.”

Her little sister’s eyes skimmed from the mirror to her to the ranger quizzically eyeing them from the bed to the shadowy corner where Rekat was hiding. Firanis wasn’t sure whether she should obey Ethlinn or not. The other woman’s sudden visit smelled fishy to say the least but then again…

She needed answers and, if this woman was right, Firanis would do anything to get them. Lives other than her own were at stake and there was one in particular Firanis would never risk.

So Firanis’s ignored Bishop’s steely look and Rekat’s warning one and looked into the mirror.

Staring back at her, was a woman whose skin was pure ebony. Her hair was darker than Firanis’s, but the eyes… the eyes were her own, except they shone with something which burned deep within her. The curse.

Her reflection was a copy of Ethlinn’s, who was just behind her, chin resting on her shoulder.

"See, sister, how alike we are inside in our inner mirrors? How, when stripped of skin and purpose, we are both black and tainted? It does not matter who you are not nor the things you've done in the past... Deep inside you're one of us and that is unavoidable."  
Firanis turned away from the black water to face the other woman.

"We are what we are, but nothing is ever unavoidable," Firanis heard herself saying.

Ethlinn laughed at Firanis’s statement. "Lying to yourself with sentences such as that only proves what I just said." She stepped closer towards her, the intoxicating perfume of her skin invading Firanis's nostrils; she gasped when the woman wrapped a hand around hers and bent down to press her lips against her throat. Firanis tried to move, but every time she tried to move thousands of needles were thrust into her skin, like rose thorns. "Don't fight it and we will be merciful on you, dear sister."

Darkness came.

And she sunk down with it.

Firanis wasn’t sure of what happened next. One moment she was having her very own soul twisted and blackened, her Eldritch power no longer enough to contain the curse. She was drowning and she wasn’t even fighting it. The next moment, breath was being knocked into her lungs and Rekat was there, the mirror shattered at her feet.

“What did you do!?” Ethlinn shrieked, desperately picking up the pieces of the mirror from the ground. “This was a precious artifact!”

“She wasn’t breathing,” Rekat calmly replied. “I had to destroy the source of the danger.”

“I was in control! You fool! Shemal will have your head for this!”

“Shemal charged me with her safety. I was only fulfilling his orders while _you—_ ”

Firanis didn’t hear anything else beyond that. She just looked at the shattered mirror and Rekat’s reflection reflected upon his shards. Ethlinn, screeching maniacally as she was, did not notice it. Neither did Rekat. Once her sister picked up all the pieces from the mirror, she left in a fury and Firanis couldn’t believe how it was possible she hadn’t noticed it.

“The mirror—”

“The mirror did nothing! It was Ethlinn who was trying to take away your youth! How could you be so foolish as to leave yourself open like that?” Rekat scolded her. “Are you trying to kill me as well?”

“She wouldn’t have killed me.” Of that, Firanis was certain. From what she knew, everything came down to Shemal and Ethlinn wouldn’t have dared to anger him that way. Yet she had tried to take something… Something Shemal wouldn’t miss. But what?

“Probably not – but the you you know now would have been gone. Ethlinn is an envious person and don’t ask me how she does it, but she usually absorbs that which she is envious of.”

Firanis covered her head with her hands, trying to calm down. She inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “You don’t get it, Rekat. I saw her and I saw me and we were the same. Yes, she did try to steal something of me, but in that mirror, we were the same. She and I are the same.”

“You’re worried you’ll become like them after Ethlinn’s mirror trick?” Rekat’s voice held a note of disbelief. “I thought it’d take more than that to move someone like you to their side.”

“Like what?” Firanis was hoping she didn’t sound too nervous. She failed.

“I don’t know. Death of a close friend… definitely of a child, if you had one.”

Firanis fidgeted with her dress. “That could also have the opposite effect.”

“Not if Shemal was planning it,” stated Rekat. “But after what you have done for Bishop, I only became surer that you are not supposed to stay here like Shemal wants to,” said Rekat. “You’re not meant for him.”

Firanis shrugged. “Bishop saved my life.”

“It was his job. Anyone else would have shitted on him and moved on. But you… You’re not from this place, Firanis,” Rekat stated in a whisper. “You do not belong in this everlasting darkness of hatred and frivolity; you’re… supposed to be somewhere else.”

Staring down onto the ground, she quirked up a smile at him. “Sadly, I think there’s a part of me that belongs here. Shemal−”

“Is your half-brother. So what?” Rekat interrupted. “That doesn’t mean you have to be like him… or like Ethlinn.”

Her very light blue eyes turned to him, inspective; her smile was replaced by a gasp of surprise when she gingerly reached out to touch his fingers. Cold; like snow, like the coolest winter morning, her skin was unnaturally _cold_. “The first name you were given,” Firanis said breathlessly, “it was not Rekat, was it?”

His widened eyes met hers and in them, he recognized something… a grim determination, everlasting resilience and… traces of a mixture of fear and sadness and incapability. “No.”

“And neither were you born in Mulhorand.”

“No,” repeated Rekat. “I was born in Maztica.”

Firanis palmed the side of his face and there was such tenderness in her Rekat could not bear to turn away. “You are the last one; the one’s who’s been missing. Or rather – the one who did not want to be found. You’ve been denying what you are, have you not, Rekat?”

Almost unconsciously, Rekat leaned into Firanis’s hand and closed his eyes. “I’ve been pretending I’m an outsider in this mess when I really happen to be at the very heart of it.”

“You’ve been pretending you’re something you’re not.”

Rekat shrugged. “I have been following Aniel’s advice, yes. It seemed to have been working out for her. And, for all these years, it did for me as well. It was your arrival which changed everything.”

“How so?”

“I can’t fully explain; but it feels like our lives were stagnating until you came and set something in motion.” He sighed. “I can’t ignore things the way I used to. Shemal and Ethlinn seem to have been affected as well.” Then, he resignedly asked, “How did you learn in a minute what Ethlinn’s been trying to find for years?”

“I saw you in the broken pieces of the mirror. And you were like us. But Rekat, I cannot understand… How did you find them and knowing everything you do, why haven’t you left?”

Rekat’s smile was ironically lopsided. “Ethlinn is right when it comes to that. We attract each other. As to why I haven’t left…” His eyes looked into the distance. “There is someone who, no matter how hard I try, I cannot seen to leave.”

Inside the room, after setting the tray down on the table, Aniel looked at the pair outside. She did not like that Rekat and Firanis had grown so close.

It was mostly her fault, really. She should _never_ have done that little poison trick to goad Bishop into revealing that his feelings for the aasimar had still been quite alive. Now not only did Rekat despise her, he had also gained a lot of sympathy for the princess.

And it hurt. Looking at him hurt. Remembering that he had accused her of trying to kill him had hurt. Rekat had been the one person for whom she’d cared and he only hurt her!

To top that off, that oaf of a man Rimal had followed her! Aniel had not wanted that. For all his good looks and how powerful she felt just because she had him wrapped around her little finger, Aniel did not want Rimal.

She did not want anyone but Rekat. But he…!

He had nearly admitted he cared for her! He had even said that the only reason he was not with her was because he thought he would be another one of her playthings. That he thought she wouldn’t give him a part of herself!

Stupid, stupid Rekat! Whenever he’d called, she’d answered. How dare he despise her thusly after everything they had been through?

“You’re almost turning green,” Bishop sneered. “Jealous much?”

“Aren’t you?” Aniel retorted.

Bishop laughed heartily. “Of _Rekat_? Everyone knows that he’s not much of a menace unless _you_ are involved.”

She snorted. “I probably am the only one who hasn’t seen that side of him.”

“You probably are. Did you poison the food again?”

Aniel dangerously squinted at Bishop. “Don’t tempt me. I’m already close to telling the princess you’re already well. Oh, don’t look so surprised, Bishop; you cannot fool me.”

“Cannot fool you on what?” Firanis asked, both her and Rekat now inside.

Bishop noticed the way Aniel looked at Rekat – and the way Rekat looked at Aniel. So, they still weren’t on speaking terms… Which explained why Aniel also was interested in keeping Bishop here.

Finally, the assassin and the thief broke their gaze and she turned to Firanis. “What he still needs at least four days to recover. He’s trying to get out of this,” the half-succubus said. “Don’t let him try to fool you as well.”

“I wouldn’t want to outstay my welcome,” Bishop spoke through clenched teeth.

“Oh, Bishop, as soon as you _can_ walk to the other side of the room without staggering, I will cease to insist on having you here,” Firanis said with a smirk. “For now, you just have to put up with me.”

Bishop looked away, trying to appear obstinate. Firanis did not know, but he already could walk to the other side of the room. Yet Aniel had given him four more days for recovery, saying that two weeks were the normal period of time for the body to fully process the poison.

Call him territorial, but if Bishop could stay in this bed and make sure Firanis wouldn’t share it with anyone else but him, he would. Just the idea of her with another made his stomach roll.

Which led him back to where everything had started eight years ago. With him taking risks for her; with him wanting all just for himself;

In a way, they were once again halfway around their full circle.

 

 

“You called?” Yarija asked.

“Yes,” replied Brian. “Lord Shemal wishes to know for how long his guest will keep the ranger in her room.”

“Why doesn’t _Lord_ Shemal ask her that himself?” Yarija irritatingly shot back.

“He is busy. Something to do with Lady Ethlinn being upset.”

“Whatever,” Yarija grumbled. “Aniel says another four days or so are in order. Is that all?”

Brian did not look at her. He calmly poured wine into his glass and twirled the liquid before tasting it.

It annoyed Yarija to no end that he was ignoring her so. So, she decided to be intrusive. “What did _you_ want when you joined the Zhentarim?”

Still, he did not look at her as he spoke. “Revenge.”

“For what?”

“They thought I’d be good target practice, once. I was just a motherless boy wandering the Sword Coast. You know how Luskans are single minded so you guess what they thought I was when I came from Neverwinter.” He sipped his wine; some part of his brain told him he should have the decorum to at least seem troubled when telling Yarija this; the other told him it was all right.

Brian never quite got his brain; it was too twisted to even begin to disentangle.

“They shot you down, then?”

Brian nodded and before he could notice it, he was unbuttoning the front of his shirt. Yarija’s eyes widened and her frame grew still. “They shot me, beat me and used me. After that, they left me for dead in the forest. A big mistake; and now, I’m extracting my revenge.”

Yarija took in a deep breath, leaning her side against the curtains and crossing her arms over her chest. Funny; he’d never noticed how full and plump her beasts were, scarcely covered by the black piece of cloth wrapped around them. “And why are you telling me all this, Brian?”

She sounded like she was getting more than what she’d bargained for. Brian chuckled at that. Since when had he learned how to do that? “You asked.”

She kept staring out the glass door of the balcony, frowning slightly and Brian found himself examining her body once again, taking in more and more of the details he’d missed for nearly eight years. It was like finally having a cloud lifted off his eyes. Yarija had such a lean frame and yet the muscles of her arms, her six pack and legs were well-defined but not in the same bulky way Kalyt’s were. Yarija seemed to have found the perfect balance.

Setting the glass down, he rose from his chair, falling under the screaming urge of _approaching her_. Yarija put a hand against the glass; she had such small, pretty hands, too. “Brian?”

“Yes?”

“It’s raining so heavily… It’s like the sky itself is crying. But,” she frowned, “it’s snowing there.” She rubbed her chest with her free hand.

“Then someone has just begun grieving too much. It’s not good.”

She looked at him, questioning.

“You’ve never heard the children’s fable? When it rains, it’s because the inhabitants of the Upper Planes are crying, for their heart’s grievance keeps being smothered inside; the falling water is their tears. And, after so much pain, they shut their hearts away from everything, hoping to stop it; the snow is the tears of a frozen heart.”

Yarija sighed. “I’ve never had anyone to tell me the tales children usually know. So, you’ll forgive me for asking why it’s not good to have celestials’ tears freeze.”

“Ah, because once their hearts freeze enough, so will everything around them.” He nodded towards the small thread of snow. “Would you want to freeze like that, Yarija?”

“I would because I so often… _burn_.”

“You burn, Yarija?”

Slowly, she nodded. “It’s like my body’s alight from within and everything is set on fire. A fever, but worse, because _nothing_ will cool me down.” She ran her hands through her uneven hair. “I feel like that right now.”

Brian envied her. Most of the time, he’d always felt nothing but a shatteringly monotone temperature. Once or twice, he’d felt cold or hot, but that was it… and now, standing so close behind Yarija, _something_ emanated from her in waves. A bead of sweat began forming on her neck, slowly falling down…

She gasped when he touched it, wiping it away. The tips of his fingers acknowledged her… heat? Brian didn’t know for sure; to him, cold and heat had been so rare and so similar, he confused them both.

He trailed his fingers to her left shoulder and began tracing the carvings of the many intertwining infinities. Yarija shuddered under him, her eyelids sliding shut.

“I have always felt this strange tingle when around you,” Brian mused, his voice low. “I never could quite place you; you drove me crazy and now I know why I never laid a finger on you.”

“Because Shemal said you’d die if you did?” she whispered; the sound of her made the strange sensation inside him grow.

“No. I never touched you because I was afraid the tingle would deepen and change me.” He leaned in, taking in her scent. She smelled the same way a forest did in the height of summer and of inviting beaches with crystal clear waters and of an oasis in the middle of a desert.

“Has it?”

The breathlessness of her voice caused his throat to tighten. “Yarija, what makes you so different?”

“I do not know.”

His hand fell down until he met the top of wings drawn at the small of her back. He raked the skin there with his nails until Yarija swallowed the lump which had formed on her throat.

“Brian,” she murmured.

“Yes?” he asked, lips grazing her ear. This close, he could see how flawless her skin really was, like translucent white glass; it was so fine he could even see some of her veins. And… there was a tinge of red on her cheeks, something he’d never seen happening.

“You don’t want that.” She looked down at her stomach, where his hand had traveled to.

“Yarija?” he pressed his lips to the side of her neck; the… _warmth_ \- yes, it was indeed warmth – of her seeped through into him and it felt unlike anything he’d ever felt before; it felt wonderfully new.

She let out a choked “Yes?”

Nipping at her flesh, Brian said, “Don’t tell me what I don’t want.”

“But…” Yarija inhaled as though she’d been too long without air. This was so sudden, so unexpected, so _undesired_ but Sharess be blessed, she wanted Brian like she’d never wanted anyone in her life! And the more she tried to deny her body’s wishes, the more they grew. Against the ever growing heat of pure lust, cold logic melted.

A wave of ecstasy blurred her sight as Brian bit hard into her neck. When she came to her senses, Yarija realized her back was arched and that both of her hands had snuck up, one to intertwine itself on his brown curls and the other to dig into the nape of his neck, pressing his mouth closer.

He spun her; Yarija’s hands fell on his chest, which was exposed because he hadn’t bothered to button his shirt again. His skin was smooth under her fingertips, the pectoral muscles hard, and no hair barred the view of the scars he’d received when he’d crossed the border between Luskan and Neverwinter. 

“They made a needle cushion out of you,” Yarija softly stated, her fingers flicking between the many marks the arrow shots had left. For some reason, something within her mirrored his pain, reminding her own; of what she’d endured under Shemal. And as much as she wanted to forget hers, she wanted to lift his off him.

Looking up, Yarija’s breath got caught on her throat as her gaze found Brian’s. A tingle traveled through her skin when she saw that who was staring back at her was not the cool, patient, strangely calm man she’d always seen in him. No, that man was gone and the eyes she’d always labeled as faded blue had now darkened to an intense sea-green. His nostrils were flaring, much as hers probably were and his lips were parted and dry due to his shallow breathing; she knew hers looked pretty much the same as well.

What really was striking her speechless though wasn’t her sudden overwhelming desire; it wasn’t the fact that Brian’s hands on the small of her back felt so good, so right, either. No, it was simply because in eight years, Brian had _always_ looked bland, common; an hour ago, he was still pretty much the same. Now, however, the skin she’d once deemed dull and dry was glossy, supple, no longer arid sand but a honey tan. Eyes that had been so lifeless now resembled a pond in the spring whose bottom was filled with moss. Hair that had seemed coarse and unruly from a distance felt silky and unknotted. His lips were darker, fuller, _aching_. Like her.

“Brian…” she began in a murmur, but her voice trailed away when his hand rose to her lips, tracing them.

“Does it take eight years of a man’s life to realize a woman has such voluminous, beautiful lips?” Yarija closed her eyes at his touch, a strange dampness breaking between her legs. Brian wasn’t truly asking her the question, she felt; it was directed to no one but himself, a thought voiced aloud.

He went on, “And they’re not really black either… they’re dark red. Like the juiciest apples.”

His mouth closed in and, like he did with the said apples, he licked her before he bit her lower lip.

Yarija was quite sure she should’ve felt at least a little bit scared that a man was biting her hard enough to draw blood; much to her dismay, her legs weakened as a sudden rush of pleasure overtook them – and she found his little cannibalistic act the most erotic thing ever. She liked it so much she did the same to his upper lip, her tongue thrusting out to taste his blood.

When they finally broke that bruising kiss, Yarija’s gaze was blurry with need. With her hands on each side of his shirt’s opening, she ripped the apart the buttons which were unlucky to be closing half of the damned thing; when she tried to get the shirt off him, though, one very tense arm told her her legs had given out and Brian was holding her. Yarija frowned as she straightened herself and unlocked Brian’s grip off her waist to tug the cursed shirt off of him.

One of Brian’s brows shot up in something very close to amusement when, after the shirt was forgotten on the floor, she found her way to the waistband of his pants. She stopped in shock when she saw him smiling. Brian had _never_ smiled and the rarity of the expression, along with the unblemished beauty of it, were so breathtaking they made him look younger, more like a celestial than a human.

Without recognizing it, her arms went upwards, her breast cloth sliding up, then falling onto the floor. It was good, Yarija thought, to be freed of it; her breasts had been straining so much against the single piece, they’d been hurting.

Brian clasped the back of her head and gave her another hungry, searing kiss.

However, for all the good and freeing this felt… It felt…

She wanted someone, but not Brian. Brian felt… _wrong_.

Yarija violently pushed him away, breathing heavily under Brian’s now astonished gaze. “I cannot,” she said between ragged breaths.

Brian’s expression changed; he seemed to have been punched in the face rather than simply have been rejected.

In a flash and before she could change her mind, Yarija picked her clothed off the floor and darted out of the room.

She had to get out of here. She had to get out of there _soon_.

 

 

“I’m sorry we had to call you, Lady Katriona,” one of the guards said. “This one says he has important information for Lord Nasher and—”

“Rimal?” Katriona interrupted, blinking as though she did not believe what her eyes were seeing. “What happened to you?”

“It’s a long story, Katriona. Is my brother here?”

“My Lady,” the guard called Katriona, who dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

“I’ll take care of him, soldier,” she said and gestured Rimal to follow her. “Why are you here?”

Rimal threw her a lopsided smile, “An old… _friend_ of mine is under the employ of the Zhentarim,” said he. “I thought it best to come warn you myself.”

A line was edged between Katriona’s eyebrows. “You have a friend among the Zhentarim?”

“Yes. I have known her for a long time – but you did not answer my question. Where’s Nevalle?”

“He had to leave on duty. He should be back within a couple of weeks at most. Who is your friend?”

“Now, Katriona, let’s not be hasty. There are certain… arrangements which have to be made before I spill my guts to you,” the Paladin said. Katriona’s frown deepened, and he commented on it. “That expression will make you older before your time, Katriona. I would ease up on it.”

“You’re a _Paladin_ , Rimal. Why are you worried about making arrangements?”

“Now, I cannot tell you that either. It is a bit unnecessary, see?”

“Does your Order even know you’re here?” she asked.

“No – but if you take me to Nasher, I might have a decent justification for my sudden absence. So please, do. I had the most unfortunate brush with the wrong person last week and it’s been wearing me down.”

The Knight of the Nine inspected the man next to her. He most certainly had changed – and, she suspected, not for the best. When he had visited his brother in the past, Rimal had always been accompanied by a radiating aura of goodness and his world had been black and white. Now the aura was gone and he seemed a bit too concerned to cover all his bases.

“Lord Nasher is already seeing someone right now,” she carefully informed. “But if you know something about the Zhentarim, he might meet you. Just do not try anything.”

Rimal snorted, something Katriona also found out of characters. “In a room full of well-armed guards ready to impale me at the first suspicious movement?” His tone almost suggested mockery. “Please, Katriona. I might be a lot of things but _stupid_ isn’t one of them.” 

Katriona nodded. “Follow me then.”

She led him to Castle Never. At the entrance of the Throne Room, Katriona turned to the guards and commanded them to move aside. “This is an emergency.”

The men moved and she pushed the doors, which opened with a loud creak.

Two figures – both sporting flowing robes and heads of vivid red – stood in front of Nasher. Nasher looked up to the door and so did they.

There was… something quite not human about them. Either it was the way they scrutinized Rimal when he entered the room or simply from the way they just stood there… they were not entirely human.

“Yes, Katriona? What is so important that you had to interrupt this meeting?” Nasher asked, slightly annoyed.

Rimal didn’t give Katriona a chance to say anything. He stepped forward and, with a strong, loud voice, said, “Are you aware, my Lord, that they harbor a powerful psionic being amidst their ranks?”

The features of the couple standing in front of Nasher both exhibited signs of surprise. After a couple of moments, the male collected himself and asked, “Tell us how much you know.”

And Rimal did.

 

 

A knock on her door. Vasjra commanded the man inside and the soldier, after a respectful bow, left a note on her desk.

It was about time she’d head from _this_ one.

The half-drow unfolded the note. There was only a single sentence scribbled on it, at which Vasjra frowned.

_The bird will die._

That was the code for when someone found information too important that it could not be passed on by regular means. Felippa had uncovered something and she was coming here to deliver it.

For her to be prepared to risk her cover by a meeting, it was strong information indeed.

 

 

Bishop woke to the sound of the rain heavily falling outside.

He sat up on the bed, head swimming at the sudden movement. He balled his hand into a fist, testing it and was pleased to find his strength had mostly come back; he reached out for the glass of water in the nightstand by the bed and greedily drained it.

It was then that Bishop noticed Firanis was missing.

She had been funny ever since her encounter with Ethlinn two days ago. Bishop had not seen much thanks to the curtains, but from the way Rekat had run to the balcony, how Ethlinn had screamed and stormed out of the room, it couldn’t have been good. Firanis and Rekat did seem to have found some sort of strange camaraderie afterwards, though, which had been vexing. Bishop would almost have begun believing Aniel’s suspicions of the two if it hadn’t been for the looks Rekat gave the half-succubus whenever he saw her.

He craned his torso to look at the ajar door of the balcony. The angry sky snarled and spat, dark grey even though it was still early in the evening; the air smelled of mud and misery, wallowing under the punishment of the heavens. Except for a certain spot in the balcony where everything seemed to be still, Bishop hardly could make out anything on the exterior, the drops of water constantly washing down one’s sight…

He got up from the bed, his legs giving away nothing but a mild protest which, considering his previous attempts to stand on his own, was a vast improvement.

Intrigued, Bishop opened stepped out of the room; rain came crashing down on him, instantly soaking his garments to a point that they clung to his body. And yet, there she was, just a few feet away, surrounded by tiny snowflakes, standing, frozen… The familiar cold tingled his skin playfully, daring him to come closer and melt away the sheet of ice which had formed around her heart.

Against his better judgment, Bishop went.

The more he killed the distance between them, the chillier it became; when he was an arm’s length away from the aasimar’s figure, snow began caressing his skin, tender and gentle… Like her hands once had.

Bishop listened to Firanis’s slow, calm breaths; he saw how her skin, as pale as the falling snowflakes, was seeping a faint, soothing white light.

“Firanis?” Bishop called, reaching out to touch her; the moment he felt her skin, her body jerked.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed?” she asked.

Bishop thought he’d better leave that question unanswered. “Firanis, come inside. You’re freezing.”

“I’m always freezing. You should know that.”

“Let’s go inside, Firanis.”

“You’re well already. Aniel was lying.”

“Firanis…”

“I don’t get it Bishop. Why won’t you leave,”

“You’ll freeze, Firanis.”

“Why would _you_ care if I freeze to death anyway?”

“You’re getting on my nerves,” he hissed.

“You used to get on mine and enjoyed it. It’s only fair I get my payback now.”

“You can do that inside. Let’s go.”

Bishop grabbed one of her arms, hard, and spun her to face him. Almost instantly, Firanis’s eyes shot open to meet his and he noticed they were darker than usual – and that they glistened.

Her mouth twisted down, trembling, and she felt herself giving up. “I’m not strong enough for this.”  

The change in her tone startled Bishop; it was no longer stubborn and strong; it was raspy with the sound of defeat.

“The funny thing is,” Firanis kept on in a weak whisper, “that we usually think we’ll always be able to fare no matter the situation; that our feelings will never matter; that a broken heart is nothing but a figurative way of speech. But…” she threw a shy, short giggle while her eyes, still of that dark grey-blue color, moved up to meet Bishop’s again; a strange mix of uncertainty and determination was craved upon them, so strong it was almost haunting.

It was exactly like that last day…

Just to make sure this wasn’t a re-living of the past, Bishop took a hand to the right side of Firanis’s face; she bit down her lip as the tears she had on her eyes crystallized on her lashes.

And, like always, Bishop wanted her. What made Firanis different from other women was something of a mystery and he did not know why or how, but his attraction to this woman had always been something he’d had to act out on. She was his. _His_.

“I don’t need you anymore.” Firanis’s voice was louder, but it shook as though she was being torn inside. “I haven’t needed you for eight years and I don’t need you now.”

As much as it bothered Bishop to hear that, he couldn’t bring himself to back out. He knew she was saying that just to convince herself, she _had_ to be…

He inched his head just a bit closer. Firanis shook her head, “ _I_ don’t need _you_!” she repeated, accentuating each one of her words to evidence her point. But if she was telling the truth, then why hadn’t she backed out? Bishop pulled her cold, cold body closer, against his and the familiar rush of desire mingled with selfish possessiveness swept over him. This woman was his and his alone.

“Let me go,” Firanis demanded, first trying to twist free of his grip and then punching his chest with those tiny, tiny hands of hers. “Bishop, _let me—_ ”

Her words died in the back of her throat when she noticed he was staring at her lips; she tried to speak again but it was as though Bishop had rendered her mute.

The feel of her lips had been so unique, so _different_ … Then there had been the exquisite softness of her skin as it had moved against his, the ephemeral, teasing brush of her hair… He had been so addicted to her no other woman would be able to make him forget. Sometimes, Bishop had even thought Firanis had somehow ensorcelled him with her warlock powers.

It was the unconditional sureness that she hadn’t that had made Bishop so mad.

Firanis tried to squirm free again, eventually forcing Bishop to pull her so tightly against him it hurt. Still speechless, all Firanis could do was shake her head; even more tears had crystallized in her lashes, turning them completely white.

He wanted her and she was his. She had _always_ been his.

Bishop leaned down and her head turned to the side. Firanis attempted to stop him with her fingers on his mouth. “Please, Bishop… _Don’t_.”

Unfortunately for her, he wasn’t about to back out now. “It’s nothing we haven’t done before.”

“I can’t do this again,” she whispered.

 _She has got to be kidding…_ “Then push me away,” he dared her in the same way she had done with him a couple of days ago.

She didn’t; but she did say “This just shows how selfish you are, Bishop.”

“And since when have I claimed to be otherwise?”

With that, Bishop greedily covered her lips in an openmouthed kiss. At first, her lack of response made him think he was kissing a block of ice; she tried to push back sometime after, but the hand he had on the back of her head forced her still. She became quiet, quieter than she’d been in the beginning, but her stillness no longer equaled that of a block of ice; no, it was the unmatched stillness of submission.

Bishop noted a slight dampness to her skin as the ice around it melted and she too, became soaked wet from the rain.  He probed her mouth with his tongue and the barriers of her teeth were no longer there. There was a tug to the collar of his armor, bringing their faces closer and deepening the kiss.

It was a pain to realize he really had missed Firanis.

Bishop’s fingers deftly worked on the laces at the back of her bodice, undoing them; tearing his lips from hers, he moved to nibble and suck at the soft flesh at the column of her throat, her collarbones, the spot under her ear before their urgent lips met again.

She might claim she did not need him any longer… But she couldn’t deny she still pretty much wanted him in the same way he wanted her.

Somehow, he saw, they’d stumbled back inside her room. Firanis’s nails dug deep into his scalp as she let out a soft moan. “This is a mistake and you know it,” she said between breaths, drawing back to pull the now loosened bodice over her head; Bishop did the same with his shirt.

“ _You_ knew it was a mistake eight years ago and you still did it.” Bishop was slightly accusing. “What’s so different now?”

“Like you’ve said, it’s not like we haven’t done this before,” Firanis spoke again. She reached for the back of her skirt; the cloth made a slight scraping nose as it slid down her legs and into the floor. “ _Just_ one more night will mean nothing.”

Bishop rolled his eyes. _Please…_ “Your tone almost suggests pity, Firanis.”

A streak of hurt crossed her face for a moment, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. “It was not pity then, Bishop…” She moved, now only covered by a white, see-through undershirt which barely reached past mid-thigh. “Just as it isn’t pity now.”

Her lips were soft on his, her hands gently closing around the back of his neck. Bishop became lost in the slow, sensuous rhythm of her kiss, so lost that he had to hold on to Firanis to remind himself that this was not another dream.

She broke the kiss and touched the side of his face for a moment before lifting his chin so that her lower teeth scraped at his throat and traveled upwards until they reached his lower lip, which Firanis bit.

Then there was the white bed, with white sheets and white pillows. Then there were they, together, like they’d been once and like they were now. It did not feel wrong, like it was then and like it was now. Combined, they belonged. They always had and they always would. Combined, they were lost in each other.

So lost that, when it ended, all that Bishop knew was that Firanis still reminded him of fields of orange lilies and marigolds frozen down by a soft winter breeze and waiting for the sun to rise and warm them up again.

That, and that with her head on his shoulder, with her naked body nestled against his, it felt calm.

Before he fell asleep, Bishop wished the morning didn’t have to come so soon.

 

 

Outside, Rekat couldn’t bring himself to open the rest of door.

Lying together, tangled in familiarity. Aniel had been right about them.

How impossible were Firanis and Bishop together?

Apparently, not much.

 

 


	15. Overture: Unveiling, Risk, Escape

**_Overture_ **

****

_“Your Queen retreats.”_

_“No, my dear… She’s just going back to where she believes she truly belongs.”_

_“What about the grey? Don’t they go together?”_

_The shaking of his head was shadowed by grief. “That is for him – and not me – to decide.”_

****

**Fifteen**

_Unveiling_

_Risk_

_Escape_

 

When he woke up, Firanis was watching him; she had that expression on her face, one which was both foreign and familiar. Wordlessly, she placed her head on his chest, just above his heart.

It was like that, as they laid together in a tangle of limbs and sheets, that Bishop, out of the blue, finally decided to reveal, “It was the half-succubus – Aniel – who tried to poison you.”

“But… why?” Firanis asked, frowning in bewilderment. “Wouldn’t Shemal punish her if I was poisoned?”

“Just as I would die if he found out I’ve slept with you.” Bishop nuzzled the side of her neck, his stubble prickling her teasingly.

“Then why did you do it?”

His lips brushed her ear and Bishop chuckled, the reverberations causing her to shudder. “I can’t change the past now, can I? He finds out about that, I’m dead; as for now… unless Aniel is hidden somewhere in this room, or you and I let it slip, there’s no chance he’ll discover anything.”

Firanis turned her head to look at him in the eye and said, “There’s more.”

“There’s _always_ more. But that doesn’t mean I’ll tell you. Same as you won’t tell me why you’re really here.”

The accusation, the near vexation Firanis felt from Bishop was hurtful. It was true that one of the reasons was that she couldn’t fully trust him… but that wasn’t the main one. Deep down, she was only really afraid to endanger him further.

Yet she knew Bishop and she knew he wouldn’t drop the subject. So, she would tell him the same amount he’d told her: just enough.

“I have to find out what this curse is and how to cure it,” said Firanis. “I can’t keep on living with something that is constantly trying to take a bite out of my soul.”

“It’s been growing worse, huh?”

Firanis nod was curt. “I don’t want to become like Shemal. Or like Ethlinn.”

Bishop’s hold on her tightened. “Why would you think you can become like those two? You’re not even related to them, Firanis.”

“Actually, I am.” Firanis appeared to have grown shy. ”Shemal and Ethlinn are my half-brother and half-sister. Together along with a fourth brother, we share the different components of the curse.”

“And you don’t know who the fourth person is?” asked Bishop.

Firanis bit down her lip, giving him nothing but silence in reply. Bishop chuckled. “So you _do_ know who he is.”

“I do. Shemal and Ethlinn, however, don’t.”

“Is it Rekat?”

Firanis was so shocked at his shot in the dark, she lifted her head from his chest. “How—”

“I was aiming blindly and lucked out,” said Bishop. “I did find your closeness to him slightly annoying but now...”

Firanis almost laughed. “You were jealous?”

Bishop shrugged. “You remember how I was back in the old days. It hasn’t changed.”

“Not even a little bit?” The apprehension in Firanis’s tone was palpable.

At that, Bishop turned his head so that he could breathe into the top of her head. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Firanis didn’t move. The feel of his warm breath against her skin and hair was lulling and the tenderness of it was heartbreaking. Despite all Bishop had done to her, Firanis had never quite been able to forget him. She had kept herself busy in order not to think about him but in this place, with these circumstances… it had been impossible.

Then, completely involuntarily, she played on an old habit.

Scratch. Circle. Scratch. Circle. Scratch.

Circle.

“I don’t remember this scar,” Firanis whispered, her cold breath creating goose bumps on Bishop’s right pectoral, where her head rested. Another scratch; another circle. “Nor this one, but…” she held her breath as she raked her nails down, towards his left side; when she traced over yet another scar, her fingers circled around it. “I remember this one.” She craned her neck to look at him. “You took it for me.”

“I took lots of scars for you.”

“Why?”

“We’d be lost without you, oh fearless leader.”

Firanis frowned, thinking he was jesting. “Really?”

“Seriously, what would have happened to us if you died?” Bishop’s voice was hoarser than usual, she noticed; as if his throat was trying to untie the knots of his vocal cords. “I knew that I, for instance, would have been smitten down by the Paladin exactly at the same time the warlock went for the Gith’s throat in the middle of a theological dispute, the elf and the human girl tried to make fireworks out of each other and the tiefling robbed the dwarf of his sacred Ironfist gear. With luck, the gnome would survive _any_ of us stabbing him as soon as he opened his mouth and the druidess would probably have us all buried under vines for letting you die just before she vanished into the earth with guilt.”

Firanis found it hard not to giggle at the mental image; she still managed it, though, forcing her tone to be serious. “Glad to know I’d have been missed. Even though I now know you’ve only protected my life to save your own.”

Bishop shot her a glance that she did not understand. It was stricken with a kind of sadness and something _else_. Firanis felt her lower lip tremble, her hand unsteady as she drew it up across his body to cup his face. Her eyes fell to his lips; they were a thin, pale line, bloodless.

“I’m sorry,” she drew her hand back, “I must be freezing you.”

She turned to roll off the bed but the arm so comfortably wrapped around her didn’t give in. Bishop caught her wrist and placed her hand on the left side of his chest.

“You’re not,” he whispered against the side of her head.

He tugged at her and she fell right on his torso; digging her nails deep on his flesh, she propped herself up above him. Something in her mind – the thing she often called _instinct_ – told her to pursue the heat of his desire, the burning of his need; told her he’d have no one but her; that he’d waited; that he’d regretted.

“Your skin is burning, Bishop.” Firanis declared.

Both of his hands were now at each side of her hips, raising them so she’d sit astride his waist. “Cool it down, then.”

Firanis bent down to kiss him, feeling her own body heat up in response. Bishop’s honey brown eyes seemed more like hot, liquid amber now and somehow, with her hand on his heart, Firanis knew that it was not faked; they’d changed only because of her. His lips coaxed, his tongue temped, his hands seduced. She grasped the sides of his jaw and pulled him even closer so that the kiss would deepen, escalate; and with every single tendril of her being smoldering, Firanis knew there was no way she could even hope to cool down his skin.

Drawing back to breathe, she shook her head. Before Bishop would interpret the gesture as something it was not, she sighed. “We burn together.”

It was not the same way it had been last night. This time around, they burned hard and they burned fast. It was then, with Firanis sitting on Bishop’s lap that she acknowledged there was one reason as to why the wound Bishop had left in her soul had never healed and Firanis was ashamed to admit that it was her own fault. Not only she had never tried to, but she had never really wanted that wound to close. It was that wound and not her daughter – who was, as she’d told Eleste, _so much_ more - that had been the only reminder Firanis had had of Bishop.

Seeing him again had only made it worse. Firanis had tried so hard not to go down the same path again but she had to understand why he’d left her eight years ago… Then the poison event had complicated everything and he’d kissed her and she couldn’t go back again.

Firanis hadn’t wanted for it to feel so good but… Kissing Bishop had been like coming home. She had missed Bishop. And now that she was with him again…

“I don’t want the day to start,” she waveringly murmured, bringing their foreheads together.

Bishop exhaled before kissing her fully on the lips. “Well, to be frank,” he said as his hands moved to grasp her buttocks, moving her against him. It was only after he drew a moan from Firanis’s lips that Bishop completed his sentence. “Neither do I.”

 

 

Rekat was panting.

Exercise usually never wore him down so quickly. His training had helped him learn how to dose his energy to last longer when fleeing a scene. What it didn’t, however, was prepare him for what he’d seen.

Rekat was a planner and, with the life he lead, Rekat had grown to be rarely surprised.

Seeing Firanis and Bishop like that… It had been unexpected. Never in his life Rekat would have thought Aniel really was right about them. Yet she was. From the way Bishop and Firanis had laid as they slept, it was impossible not to see this was something which stemmed from feelings hidden for many years.

It was the strangest thing. During all these years, Rekat never had seen Bishop so… _calm_ as he had been with his arm around the aasimar. And Firanis… she exuded an aura of plain contentment. Her head had been resting on Bishop’s chest and her hand was tenderly palming his face.

Rekat had not known what to do. Normally he would have had to go to Shemal but Rekat had forged a sort of bond with Firanis which forbade him to tell Shemal anything –and to top that off, there was still the certain fact that Firanis hadn’t blabbed on him either and had kept his true identity a secret.

Not to mention Rekat was curious of Bishop’s excuse. Sure, he and Firanis had known each other beforehand but Rekat wanted to know why would someone as Bishop have left someone like Firanis.

Having taken all that into consideration, there was only one person Rekat could talk to. The only person who certainly knew about this as well.

And that person was none other than Aniel.

Without something as cordial as a knock, Rekat opened the door of the tallest room and strode inside, scanning his surroundings for Aniel. He found her sitting on the bed, wearing nothing but a short nightgown of black silk and drying her hair with a towel, which she dropped the moment she lifted her gaze up to meet Rekat’s.

“You were right,” Rekat bluntly whispered before she could say anything. “I still do not think you should have done the poison trick but Aniel…” He gaze was lost as he looked up. “You were right.”

“Um…” Aniel tilted her head to the side, apparently at a loss. “What?”

“Firanis and Bishop,” replied Rekat, throwing his hands about himself. “What do I do, Aniel? If I tell Shemal, Mask knows what will happen to them!”

Aniel shifted in her position; Rekat could almost feel the irritation coming from her. “Why, were you hoping to change places with Bishop?”

Rekat shuddered not at how purely acidic Aniel was being, but at the thought of what Aniel had mentioned. “Gods… _No_ ,” said Rekat. He proceeded to kneel in front of the half-succubus, whose face was still contorted in contempt. “Aniel… Firanis is my sister.”

Rekat was almost as surprised as Aniel. His confession had been voiced without thought and it was more of danger to him than to Firanis if the wrong people found out. His breath quickened and after a long moment, Aniel slinked down from the bed to his side. “Rekat…”

“You cannot tell this to anyone,” Rekat’s voice shook so much Aniel grasped the sides of his arms as though to steady it. It appeared to work, because Rekat calmed down. “If Shemal or Ethlinn find out, I’m as good as dead.”

“Contrary to what you seem to so keenly believe, I do not want you dead.” Aniel couldn’t help to lash out at him just a bit, which Rekat seemed to notice, because his expressions cringed as though he’d been hit. “How do you know she’s your sister?”

“I have always known – I just didn’t want to make it real,” whispered Rekat. “But something Ethlinn did went wrong and Firanis found out and I couldn’t back away from it anymore.”

“It…?”

“Our heritage. Besides a father, we all share a curse. It connects us in ways you can’t even begin to imagine – just as it’s drawn us together.”

Aniel furrowed her brows. “I can’t see how that’s possible.”

Rekat smiled then – not the smile Aniel had fallen for but another smile, as dry as his sandy tone. “Aniel, I’m known as the Slaughterer in Mulhorand and you know why? I killed my entire division of the Shadow Thieves and was forced to flee into the Zhentarim because here, it would be much harder for them to touch me. And I am absolutely certain I would never have done it if it weren’t for the curse trying to find a way to reunite me with my dearest brother Shemal and my charming sister Ethlinn.”

“They didn’t recognize you?”

“No. It has something to do with the curse, I believe… Just as Shemal’s part makes it impossible for him to go unnoticed, mine makes me almost unseen.” Rekat bit the inside of his cheek, his sentences coming out more hesitantly. “In fact… You were one of the few people who’s managed to pick me out of a crowd.”

Aniel’s hands slid down his arms and eventually dropped them. “In Baldur’s Gate, the night we first met.”

“You caught me by surprise when you looked into my eyes and _stopped_.” He chuckled lightly. “I could almost swear you’d stopped breathing.”

An involuntary smile and a blush spread through Aniel’s features. “I _did_ ; not that it matters now at any rate.” She nonchalantly lifted one shoulder, purposefully trying to change the where the conversation was heading. “Then if your power is to be able to go unnoticed… Then what about the other three?”

“You should have noticed already Shemal has a very peculiar way of dominating people. The heat he irradiates… it either makes people fear him or adore him. Or both. He is a very seductive man and cruelly dangerous at that.

“Firanis is sort of the other side of the coin; they’re not very different, her and Shemal, except that rather than striking fear into people’s hearts, her cold touch is so soothing she can be as persuasive as she wants.”

“And that is why Shemal wants her.”

“Yes. Together, imagine what sorts of things they could achieve.”

“And Ethlinn?”

Rekat’s smile was lopsided. “She’s the same as me. And she loathes it.”

Aniel took her time before she spoke again. “You’ve known this already all along. That’s why you were so adamant with your warnings.”

“When?”

“Remember… Remember when you warned me about Shemal?” Aniel’s voice was meek and she was stammering at every couple of words.

“Ah. It’s not that I didn’t trust you, Aniel, it’s just… I had seen his side of the curse at work and I was truly fearing about what it’d do to you. And it looks like I was right. Whatever powers had been laying dormant in your blood…”

“Shemal awakened them,” Aniel completed, looking down at her lap in shame. “What happened to us afterwards?” Aniel then asked, her voice as soft as the drizzling rain on the outside.

Rekat’s gaze grew tender and he reached out to lightly tilt Aniel’s chin back up. “We estranged each other that day. That was all.”

“But I didn’t want to kill you. I really did not.”

Rekat sighed. “But you almost did. I felt it, Aniel; my soul, being sucked out of my body as your kiss increased the compass of my heartbeat. Whether you meant it or not, you almost killed me and to be truthful…” Rekat affectionately grazed the side of Aniel’s face with his knuckles. “The only thing I was afraid of was that I would end up being just another man to you. I was afraid you wouldn’t be willing to give me the same thing I was about to give you.”

Aniel closed her eyes, enjoying the peace his light touch brought her. “But that’s exactly the problem. It was not just what Shemal awakened; I could not – and still can’t - control my feelings because you’re not just any other man.”

“Aniel…”

“It just…” she gulped. “It hurt so much when you left, Rekat. I had been alone all my life but nothing ever compared to that day. And now that I know why I lost control and why it hurt so much…” Her glistening eyes met his and upon closing them, a tear escaped. “I am afraid as well. And if what I have to risk is your life, then I’m not sure I want to make a move either.”

Rekat was struck speechless. He did not feel any sort of deceit coming from Aniel now. This wasn’t something she was pretending – but the truth instead. Thoughtlessly, he cupped her face with both hands and instead of the typical surge of lust and pleasure Rekat always felt whenever he was with Aniel, all he felt was a sweet, painful tingling.

Just as a single tear fell from Aniel’s eyes, she reached out to cover his hands for a fond second before she drew them away, dropping them next to him.

She ran the back of her hand over her cheek before she straightened herself. “I’m not much of her or Bishop’s fan,” said Aniel. After all Bishop _had_ blackmailed her and Firanis had got to her with those assumptions she’d made. “But before telling Shemal anything, you might want to talk to them first. It won’t hurt and who knows – you might just gain something more that way. Now.” She looked towards the door. “Please leave.”

Rekat got the feeling that the way she had so resolutely turned her profile to him was because she couldn’t bear the sight of his face any longer. Guilt was like a violent wind sweeping Rekat over, but he did not let it knock him down. He rose from the floor before he stepped out of the room, Rekat looked back and said, “Every time my life gets threatened, I either get very angry or very scared. When you tried to poison Bishop, I got angry and I purposefully tried to hurt you. For that, I am sorry.

“But if it means I’m alive because I left you three years ago… Then however great the pain I cause you was, I cannot apologize for that.”

Aniel looked up but by the time she was ready to get up and go to him, Rekat had already closed the door.

She had not wanted to kill him, true, but if he hadn’t left… who knows what would have happened? She might have kept her hunger under a leash, but the opposite was equally probable. Deep down, Aniel realized couldn’t blame Rekat for leaving her that day either.

After all… If there was someone whose death she had never truly wished… It was Rekat’s.

However… with what she had discovered tonight, everything they were or had been or could become… It was all crumbling to dust.

Without realizing it, Aniel was on her side, head buried between her knees and she was crying for the first time ever since Rekat had left her.

Rekat was Shemal’s brother…

She couldn’t have received any news worse than that.

 

 

“You know me better than anyone, Ethlinn. So tell me,” Shemal’s hands crudely fell on either side of the chair Ethlinn was sitting on and he lowered his face; for all the heat emanating from his skin, his voice was as cold as ice. “Why would you do something you knew would piss me off!”

Ethlinn cringed. With Shemal looming over her, she felt very small, very insignificant and very powerless. “I wasn’t,” she mewed, but Shemal’s hands fell on the chair once more, effectively subduing her into silence.

“No? Then explain why you tried sucking her life into you!”

“It was just her youth!” Ethlinn screeched, feeling like a cornered puppy. “You should know how tempting that light of her is! You want her too!”

Her face was violently turned to the side and a whimper escaped Ethlinn’s lips. She inhaled deeply and exhaled a couple of times, fighting back the tears surging in her eyes. Shemal had struck like lighting like he always did and she was too weak to fight back.

Ignoring the blood on her split lip, Ethlinn straightened herself and looked at Shemal in the eye. “Am I not telling the truth, brother?”

Shemal’s nose crinkled and he bit into his lip; he punched the chair’s arms again before straightening to a full standing position. Ethlinn could see, by his heavy, sharp breathing, that he was fuming.

“How many times to I need to tell you _Firanis is not to be touched by anyone else but me_?” he roared. “That light you so envy is to be mine and mine alone! Not yours – not anyone else’s. _Mine_!”

“I find it amusing that you seem to constantly forget someone has got there before you.” Ethlinn slammed her eyes shut, but the explosive blow she expected never came. Warily, she opened them to find Shemal was as still as stone.

He derisively looked down on her and hissed. “And _I_ find it amusing you seem to constantly forget who I am, sister. Do you think I’ve gone soft because she’s here? That her cold half has thrown my heat into temperance?”

Ethlinn’s lips were so firmly pressed together they trembled. Shemal squatted down in front of her and, for a moment, he looked like a tomboyish little man. “I _will_ find that man, Ethlinn and when I do, I will mete out my punishment on him and I swear to you, it will be in the worst possible way I can conceive. And you know I can conceive pretty horrible things, can’t you?”

Ethlinn didn’t have to think hard on what Shemal meant by that. His half-lidded look of smugness only suggested one thing: Yarija.

“Yes. I did get the short straw on that deal, though, didn’t I?”

Shemal grunted dismissively. “I got the short straw at birth. To be stuck in mildness is not nearly as maddening as this constant burning. Plus… There was only so much which could be passed on little Yarija – it was only natural that it was a bit of _my_ curse and not yours.”

“So it’s also fair we find your half and not mine?” she scathingly spat back.

“What, you doubt Matlal is far?” Shemal laughed and it was like being under a falling rock. “Esmerelle got him and his mother away from us once but he inevitably will find his way back. And when he does, _you_ , my dearest sister, will have to do the exact same thing I’m doing with Firanis. You will get him on our side and you will unleash your curse upon the disgusting little people who were weak enough to let us conquer them.”

 “But…”

“No _buts_ , Ethlinn. I sent you with the task of frightening Firanis into our side by showing how alike we truly were and you did the exact opposite.” His hand spoke with an intimate stroke on her knee, the sudden warmth sending her mind reeling so hard she almost couldn’t think straight.

His mouth was on her neck, then her ear, to where he so slowly whispered. “Or are you forgetting I am doing this for you as well?”

Ethlinn bit into her lower lip, feeling almost ashamed she had forgotten what Shemal was doing, he was doing for them. He had a perfectly planned plan for that and she had jeopardized it because she hadn’t been able to shut down the little voice which whispered words of envy into her ear.

Once Shemal had got up, she fell at his feet, kissing them as tears of humiliation and anger – directed at herself and herself only - cascading down her caramel-colored cheeks. She mumbled words of anxious regret, begging him to forgive her selfish behavior, all the remnants of her previous defiance vanquished from her being.

Shemal didn’t touch her. He just kicked her away from him and, uttering a “I will now fix the mess you’ve created,” left a lonely Ethlinn the room.

Not even that dizzying, sensuous heat so characteristic of his was left behind.

 

 

That morning was the first time Tyavain had been out of the room ever since the Seer had brought her back from madness. Leaving the drow to an undeniably-deserved, much-needed undisturbed rest in her room, Tyavain went downstairs to encounter her both aunt and uncle busy with stacks of paper and rolls of parchment.

“Uncle. Aunt. Good morning,” she said.

“Ah, Tyavain. You’re just in time,” her aunt greeted. “Will you please go get Nevalle? We are getting your information ready. He’s training outside behind the shack.”

Tyavain nodded her acknowledgement and, taking her cloak from the hangar, made her way out of the house. Her legs had been complaining a little, but as soon as she breathed the fresh morning air outside, Tyavain paid them no more heed. It was a chilly morning, but to finally be out made the low temperature seem refreshing rather than bothersome.

She was expecting Nevalle to be the first and only person she’d see outside. However, guiding Xanthus by reins, was Malin. With everything that had happened, Tyavain had expected the ranger to have gone away the first chance she got. To find her here… Tyavain approached the shack and Malin almost shuddered when she caught sight of her.

 “I thought you had left,” said Tyavain when the other woman was only a couple of feet away.

“We had a contract,” Malin responded.

“Why else do you think I would only pay the total of the agreed sum upon returning? I was halfway expecting you’d break it.”

Malin patted the horse’s muzzle; the animal made a little sound of contentment. “I had to take care of the horses.”

“My uncle and aunt could have done that.”

Malin gulped and looked down. Tyavain couldn’t help but notice how short Malin’s answers had been nor how the ranger was avoiding to look at her. “You’re scared of me and I can’t really blame you,” whispered Tyavain. “Most people are. It’s not very… comforting to know I am feared so.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Why? You, unlike most people, remained.” Tyavain frowned. “You’re actually kind of brave. I was right to trust you with taking me here. The thing is… Will you take me back?”

This time, Malin did look at her. “Of course. I intend on keeping my end of the bargain. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Malin tugged at the horse’s reins, pushing him forward. “I have to take him out for a ride.”

Tyavain lowered her head in slight vehemence. “Thank you.”

“Yeah…” With that, Malin climbed on top of Xanthus and rode briskly away.

Tyavain sighed. It was something of a bad sign that she had grown accustomed to this sort of behavior, wasn’t it? Still, she couldn’t let that get to her… If anything, it’d only make the voices take even more control of her.

She went past the shack, where the circle of barren land her uncle and aunt used to train was located. Sir Nevalle was indeed there, wearing nothing but linen pants, boots and bandages on his hands as he swung around his longsword.

For some reason Tyavain couldn’t quite grasp, she was unable to reveal her presence. The intensity of Nevalle’s training mesmerized her. For a man his size, the Knight was remarkably quick and there was something hypnotic in the way the glistening muscles rippled with every fluid movement.

Tyavain couldn’t look away. She felt the heat rising to her cheeks and shame screaming on her mind. This was wrong. Very wrong. But still…

Suddenly, Nevalle stopped, breaking off the trance Tyavain had fallen into with something akin to a whiplash. “You’re finally up,” he noted.

Tyavain’s nods were obviously too eager, because Nevalle’s brows knitted together in suspicion. “Is there something wrong, Tyavain?”

“No, of course not!” Tyavain tried to mask her nervousness but only succeeded in making Nevalle even more suspicious. Tyavain caught on that, so she quickly added, “Uncle Aarin is going to give me the information now. They asked me to fetch you.”

As Nevalle closed in on her, Tyavain realized she was standing right in front of the long where he had placed his towel. She stepped back as he bent down to take it and dried up his neck, but even so Tyavain was able to catch a whiff of his strong scent. She was appalled at the way her body cried out. She was even more so when she found out her body whined when he pulled a shirt over his head!

_What is wrong with me?_

Nevalle eyed her peculiarly before asking, “So, shall we go?”

“Yes,” said Tyavain. It was while on their short trip back to the house that she understood just what was happening. Apparently, the momentary absence of the taints had been replaced by the raging hormones of someone her age.

Tyavain had a very hard time restraining herself from slapping her own forehead in dismay.

Just what she needed. Instead of fighting taints, she was now charged with controlling hormones.

Once back inside, her aunt commanded them to sit at the dining table, which was now filled with all sorts of documents.

“We have been paying close attention to them and have a great deal of information on most of their forces,”  began Aarin. “Unfortunately, their leader Shemal managed to remain elusive.”

“We’ve been trying to find out who and what he is exactly for years. What we’ve uncovered has little to no meaning.” Radrien sighed. “He’s Zakharan. Has an older sister who is also in the Zhentarim. And there you have it.”

In mild amazement, Tyavain’s eyes flicked from Radrien to Aarin. “Not even you could dig up some more dirt?”

Aarin shook his head. “I’m sorry but you have to see… There’s a reason he’s so highly ranked among the Zhentarim. His skills at hiding his tracks are spotless and his political skills…”

“Yes, he certainly knows how to play around with people.” Tyavain pensively chewed on the inside of her cheek, head tilted upwards. “This is going to get messy at some point.”

“It is,” Radrien agreed and then turned a meaningful glance at Nevalle. “But by that time, Neverwinter has to be ready to rise against him.”

The Knight of the Nine was mildly put off by Radrien’s statement. “You seem to be forgetting that Neverwinter is not exactly in shape for another war, Radrien. We are still—”

“It is inevitable, Sir Nevalle,” Tyavain interrupted.

“So you’re saying we’ll only get rid of Shemal if we start a war?” Nevalle let out a low chuckle. “We just do not have the force.”

Tyavain blinked. “Why else do you think Firanis is all the way over in Luskan if not to buy us time to get one?”

“It’s as simple as this, Nevalle,” Radrien spoke strongly. “You either get an army while the enemy is distracted and fight later or you slowly allow the Zhentarim’s grasp to close around Neverwinter.”

“Lord Nasher would never allow that!” the Knight exclaimed.

“Well.” Radrien’s smile was as faux as it was sickeningly sweet. “Then you should start making use of all your alliances, don’t you think?”

Predicting yet another fallout between Radrien and Nevalle, Aarin decided to speak up again in order to avoid it. “At any rate, we still managed to gather information on a lot of their members.” When he was certain he had the undivided attention of the three people sitting with him, Aarin rolled up a parchment and, setting four stones at each of its corners, placed it right at the middle of the table.

“We start with Vasjra. No last name, just that she’s a half-drow and a very important Cleric in the Loviatar order – a _Pain_ , as they call it. It is undoubtedly her who is forewarned by her Goddess whenever something of critical relevance is to take place.”

“I’ve seen her,” said Nevalle. “She tagged along with Shemal from time to time.”

“Then you know what I speak of is true.” Aarin picked another roll parchment and did the exact same thing as he did with the other. In this one, a short-haired woman with manly features was drawn. “Kalyt Borgir. She has been in the Zhentarim ever since she was old enough to enlist their ranks. She is a skilled fighter and, along with Prarg, is responsible for the training of the ground troops.”

A man with curly hair and a stance as bland as saltless bread.“Brian Woodwind is a druid who was nearly killed off by Luskans when he was a child. It’s said that Ethlinn’s found him and, after having him healed, she never let him out of her sight again.”

An orc whose teeth were a chaotic jumble, green skin and a nearly balding head. “Prarg Steelgrip was the chief of a clan before he decided to broaden his horizons. Do not be fooled, for when it comes to battle strategy, he is naturally gifted.”

Tyavain’s eyes flashed in recognition at the next picture. The diamond shaped face decorated with perfect lips, perfect nose, perfect eyes… “Aniel Dy’ner is both an assassin and a dancer. We believe she was responsible for the deaths of many important men in Baldur’s Gate and our sources tell us she maintained a relationship with a Paladin in Yartar.” Aarin turned his head to Nevalle. “Your brother, nonetheless.”

“Rimal?” Nevalle stuttered. His brother had always had a keen sense to distinguish good from evil with a single look – not to mention he was more zealous than a chaste monk. There was no way he would have become involved with someone like that! “How can you be so sure?” he asked.

“If you ever saw the woman in question, you would see why even someone like your brother would fall,” said Aarin.

“But—”

“He is right,” Tyavain resolutely interrupted. “I’ve met her once before. She is easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Nevalle frowned angrily. “Rimal would not fall for looks!”

“For _those_? Trust me, he _would_.” Tyavain waved a hand back and forth as if to tell Nevalle to calm down. “We’re not attacking your brother here by making such claims; but you have to see Rimal is human and to have a half-succubus throw all her charms at him… He would have to truly be emotionless to fully resist them.”

“Tyavain is right,” Radrien backed her niece up, hoping Nevalle would settle down – which, after a couple of heavy moments, he did. “Please go on, Aarin,” she instructed.

Aarin looked at Radrien before continuing. In the next parchment he presented was a hooded man with the sort of features who would have gone unnoticed anywhere. “Next there is Rekat Banoub. He was once a member of the Shadow Thieves until a mass slaughter occurred twelve years ago. He went freelance for a while afterwards. Your mother,” he nodded to Tyavain, “even paid him to steal some documents from me once.”

“That _is_ like her,” the half-elf tiefling sighed. “How did it go?”

“This scar,” Aarin pointed at the particular one which ran from the man’s right cheek to the eyebrow of the same side. “Is a souvenir from that day. Afterwards, it didn’t take long for him to join the Zhentarim.”

“Hum,” Tyavain slumped slightly backwards on her chair, arms crossed above her chest. “I’ve seen him as well. With the alu-demon.”

“Yes, there is also that rumor about them.” Radrien sighed. “Otherwise, our informants would never have picked up on him.”

Aarin drew yet another parchment; this one was the only one bearing a full-body drawing. It was of a woman with an uneven haircut, whose black lips were twisted down in a perpetual grimace and whose eyes were surrounded by shadows. But if her face was of an unmistakable kind, her body was even more so. “Yarija Thress, who has been with the Zhentarim the longest. She was born there, but to whom, we don’t know. It’s the same regarding the markings on her skin; they do not look like simple tattoos, but if they’re magic, they have eluded us.”

Aarin prepared to show the last of the parchments, but then Radrien cheerfully snatched it from Aarin’s hands. “Oh, let me say this last one!” She opened it; however, she did not show it to anyone. “The last person is this man,” Radrien languidly leaned back as though to take a better look at the drawing in front of her. “He was recruited into the Zhentarim almost eight years ago. Our informants have said he’s a skillful ranger and appears to know the zones of Neverwinter and Luskan like the palm of his hand. His name, though, is an obvious alias. After all, I highly doubt anyone would name their child after a chess piece.” Radrien flipped the portrait so both Tyavain and Nevalle could see it. “And I believe his face is familiar to you, no?”

Nevalle’s jaw dropped the moment he laid eyes on the drawing. Tyavain on the other hand, didn’t seem at all surprised. She nudged the knight in the arm. “Sir Nevalle?”

He hunched over the table, taking the portrait from Radrien’s hands, eyeing it widely. “Will someone please tell me…”  He turned to Tyavain, his voice shaky. “Just _why_ , among all people in the world, is _Bishop_ in Luskan right now?”

 

 

With the way the air simmered, Rekat did not need to look at the door to see who had just decided to pay them a visit. He just shirked even further into his corner and hoped Shemal did not notice him. Before Rekat could get a straight answer out of Bishop, he preferred to stay out of the Zhentarim’s leader’s sight. That way, he wasn’t risking anything.

Fortunately for him, Shemal went straight to Firanis, who froze the moment Shemal lifted her hand to plant a kiss upon her fingers. “My dear, I feel absolutely guilty by what happened yesterday. Ethlinn tends to get carried away and has already been punished accordingly.”

Well, at Shemal certainly hadn’t wasted any time in addressing Ethlinn’s misdeeds. For some reason, he was taking the direct route with Firanis, something Shemal only did when faced with a worthy opponents.

Firanis murmured something so low Rekat couldn’t make out what it was. Shemal smiled all too openly. “Ethlinn is not the only reason why I’m here today.” He looked at Bishop. “I believe your charity case will survive if I take you away today for a tour around Luskan.”

“I don’t—”

“Rekat will see that he does not die. He did a fine job with you, I’m sure he can handle _this_.” Shemal jovially said, drawing an arm around Firanis’s waist and dragging her out through the still open door all too quickly. “I promised you I would show you around, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Firanis replied.

The door was slammed shut.

“Then today is the day. I will take—”

Once Shemal’s face had fully faded, Rekat slowly crept up to Bishop, who was now slumped on a chair. “You’d better start talking, Bishop, and start talking _fast_ ,” Rekat hissed while looking down at the ranger.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“No?” Rekat’s brows slackened and he let his arms drop in complete incredulity. “So your little adventure with Firanis last night is of little importance to you?”

“How—?”

“I saw you two sleeping,” said Rekat. “So you’d better tell me what the hell happened between you two before I decide to unstitch my mouth to Shemal.”

Bishop _harrumphed_. “I thought you and Aniel were not on good terms any longer.”

“Shut up and talk, Bishop.”

“Why would you care?”

“This secret isn’t just a rope around your neck – but around mine and Yarija’s as well.”

Bishop squinted derisively at Rekat. “And here I thought it was you defending your sister’s honour. _Tsk tsk_.”

“You think you’ll stop me from getting the truth out of you with that?” Rekat grinned poisonously. “Well then... If you know about that is because Firanis told you; and if she told you, then you should know it’s because she knows you’ll keep quiet.”

“And why is that?”

“Firanis is not stupid. She knows that if Shemal learns about me, she too will find her days harder to live.”

Rekat got the feeling that he’d trapped Bishop between the anvil and the hammer. Victorious, he incited, “You can begin by when you two met. And I don’t need to warn you that if I catch you lying or don’t like your motives...”

Rekat let the last sentence hang under Bishop’s searing gaze. The ranger sat, appearing to gather his thoughts. By the time he’d started speaking, he’d already cracked all his knuckles and turned his lips white from all the pursing.

“With someone like Firanis, all perfect and beloved in her pedestal, it was bound to have no future; soon she’d ask for something I was not willing to give, or I would do something which would make her see there was no place for me in her life. I thought it was going to be the same as with every other woman. Enjoy it and leave the moment she got demanding or clingy.

“Firanis... she never did. From the first day we met, eight years ago, I was always driven insane by how she had just accepted who I was and was working a way around it. She never judged me, she just... It’s hard to put into words how I exactly felt whenever she was around; no matter what she did, I followed, no matter what she said, I listened. In a manner of speaking, she was the flame and I was one of the many moths being drawn to it.

“Time passed and things just... happened. Then one day I see an orc aiming an arrow at her and, what do you know, I’m pushing her away and taking the hit myself. The sudden realization that I would indeed _die_ for her exploded in my mind and I couldn’t live with that. I’d seen how selfish and cruel people can be, even when they don’t want to and had shaped myself to live in that world. I cared for myself and myself only and I was _fine_ with that; that Firanis endangered the single way of survival I knew of threw me out of balance.

“So, I left her. I betrayed her, mocked her, hurt her... I had prepared myself to put a definite end to everything – either she died, or I did. It was so simple there was no way it would fail.”

Bishop chuckled mirthlessly. “Turns out I had underestimated how much of a stubborn fool Firanis could be. You’d think she’d take the easy way out and just kill me but no. She just turned those big eyes of hers to me and asked _“Why?”_

“My mistake was probably in telling her. Spewed out my darkest secrets in front of everyone so she’d move on and be done with it; at the end, when I told her the real reason we had to end it was because I _would_ die for her and everyone else wanted to throttle me, she gets that stricken expression all over her face and tears begin rolling down her cheeks. Eight years after it happened, I still can’t forget how she steeled herself, wiped them away before anyone else could notice and... She _smiled_.

“It... clung on to me that despite how much I was trying to hurt her, she still gave me that unfettered, bright smile which touched her eyes, the one she had only for me. She told me she didn’t want me to die – not for her and not for anyone else – and that she’d only wanted me to be well, safe and with her, but that those three wishes would never e fulfilled together.

“It was then that I understood she wasn’t tying me down to her; rather, she was asking me to go because she was stupid enough to care more about me than she did about herself.

“After that... I could no longer stay. So I left her and thought her dead until Shemal brought her here and proved me wrong.”

Bishop fell into silence and Rekat saw in that his opportunity to finally speak up. “Why would you do that?”

“Didn’t you hear me? There was no future.” Bishop snorted.

“You sound sad,” Rekat keenly observed.

Bishop lifter the corner of his lips only slightly and all too bitterly. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Rekat inclined his head softly. “Two more questions?”

“Whatever.”

“Why risk Shemal’s anger?”

Rekat couldn’t pinpoint which emotion overtook Bishop then. Whether it was nostalgia, realization, delusion or even hope... he really couldn’t tell. Whichever one it was, though, it drew a smile so tranquil in Bishop’s lips, so similar to the one he’d been wearing when Rekat had seen him sleeping with Firanis, Rekat was completely taken aback.

“It was Firanis.”

That previous shock was nothing next to the one he felt when Bishop, so softly and lightly, had answered. The, as quickly as it had come, that look as wiped off Bishop’s face and he regained his rough demeanour. “Your last question?”

“What was it that you’ve blackmailed Aniel about?”

Bishop opened his mouth to reply, but closed it instantly, shaking his head heavily. “I’ve just noticed it wasn’t nearly as bad as when I found out. I wouldn’t have wanted to receive the news then – but now...”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you feel about a niece, Rekat?” Bishop asked.

“I... erm...” Rekat stammered. “Why?”

“Aniel.”

“Aniel what? She can’t be my _niece_.”

“Rekat...” His name was dark on Bishop’s voice. “She can. Aniel is Shemal’s daughter.”

 

 

“Pain Vasjra,” the auburn haired woman bowed. “It is an honor to be in your presence once again.”

“Felippa,” the half-Drow gave an acknowledging nod. “Did anyone follow you?”

The human shook her head. “No, Mistress. No one doubts me.”

“Good. What information do you have?”

“Do you remember the child? Firanis’s child?”

“I do. What of the pest that’s so important you had to come here?”

“Her father. I know who he is.”

Vasjra’s eyes, which had been half-lidded for a long time, snapped open and she sat straighter in anticipation. “Who is it, then?”

Felippa smiled wildly in satisfaction. “Bishop.”

 

 

Firanis heard through Torio and Rekat and Yarija how much of a rotten place Luskan had grown to be. Not that she didn’t believe them, but the stories they had told… Firanis had hoped it wasn’t so bad and it was just their hatred for the city exaggerating the facts.

It wasn’t.

People from all sorts of ages begged on the street, so weak from hunger they could barely stand. They’d reach out for passer-bys, who would ignore them and kick them in the teeth.

If anyone could stand, chances are they would be pick pocketing in the streets. Firanis saw them, reaching out for a random person’s money pouch and most of them had managed to get away. The one who was caught…

She closed her eyes, but it was to no avail. The image of a man putting the boy’s hand on a log and slicing it off was still too fresh.

Most of the houses were ruined and, from a hole or two on the wall, she could see that there were at least eight people sharing a very small room, dividing space like ants. She saw the overpriced shops with barely any articles, the dirty taverns, the deserted temples… But nothing was as scarring as that horrible thing she had witnessed.

A baby – newborn, most likely – had been crying, so she had looked. Firanis wished she hadn’t because all she saw as the cloaked man holding the child setting it down on the floor – before crushing the baby’s head with the heel of his foot and silencing the cries forever.

Firanis tried to dart towards the man – now throwing the child’s carcass into the river -, but Shemal’s hold on her was firm. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“But—” Firanis gasped, trying to find the words to speak. Shemal took a finger to her lips, urging her to quiet down.

“They cannot have another mouth to feed, so they shut it.” Shemal was so factual, so unconcerned, it drove Firanis mad. But she kept very quiet, biting down into her lip to better suppress her temper.

“These people,” Shemal continued. “Are not like us. Even with our setbacks, we have done something of ourselves. But them?” Shemal’s mouth curved down in disgust. “They are nothing. And do you know what’s even worse? The _choose_ to stay that way.”

“That does not mean they can’t still change!”

“They don’t want to. And after all you’ve witnessed here today… Firanis, can you truly say they deserve the precious gift of life?”

She turned her face away. People _could_ change if they wanted to. The only reason Luskan wasn’t doing so was because they did not have anyone to properly guide them. The dominating entity in this city were the Zhentarim and, for a reason, instead of lifting Luskan off the ground to make it a profitable place… They wanted it to sink lower and lower.

It was as though they were counting on Luskan to be gone.

Firanis must have let her realization leak through her expression because Shemal brought her close to him. Yet this time around, Firanis did not feel any of the passionate heat… just apathy.

“There’s a way for us to be saved from ourselves, my dear,” Shemal whispered against her ear. “To find a place so dark darkness itself will hide in it…”

“What…”

“Do you think the world will lose much if we unleash our curse upon this wretched place?” Shemal breathed deeply into her hair and Firanis could have sworn he was about to go on when he dropped her like a hot stone.

“You…” Shemal’s breathing unleveled nervously. “You smell different.”

Firanis forced herself to remain completely still. “I do?” She asked in the most monotone voice she could muster. If Shemal found out about Bishop… She didn’t even want to think about it.

“Yes. You do.” He reached out, grasping her arm with no longer a patient, gentle touch; he smelled the side of her neck violently, causing Firanis to feel uneasy. “You smell… like musk.” He shook her. “Why?”

With all her cold calm, Firanis drew his arm away. “I used a different soap! Why else would I smell different?”

Shemal exhaled. “Did you?”

“Yes!” Firanis tried to pour all of her indignity into that exclamation.

Shemal moved his lips, seemingly digesting Firanis’s reaction. Then he bowed apologetically, that warm, perfect smile back to shaping his mouth. “Of course. I am sorry – I just feared you’d been harassed. That was all.”

Firanis mentally let out a sigh of relief. “You can rest assured that I haven’t.”

“Good. I’d hate my men to misbehave around you. Now come.” He waited for Firanis to take his arm which she – knowing there was no other alternative – did. “I will take you Yarija now. She’ll escort you back home.”

Yarija wasn’t far away. Five minutes afterwards, Shemal had left with yet another one of his cordial kisses and Firanis was left alone with the younger woman.

Or so she’d thought.

As soon as she and Yarija had passed one of the side entrances in order to reach the Hosttower Firanis was lodged at, they heard barking. Soon after, a very familiar wolf joined them, whimpering and rolling at Firanis’s feet.

“Not Bishop’s pet,” Yarija rolled her eyes before letting them fall on Firanis. “Look, the beast likes you. You’ve stayed with Bishop for far too long.”

Firanis scratched the top of the wolf’s head, remembering she wasn’t supposed to know who this was. “What’s his name?”

“Karnwyr,” said Yarija.

“Hello, Karnwyr,” Firanis happily said. “What is it that you’re here for?”

The wolf barked and ran away, stopping after he’d distanced himself a few feet from the women. He barked again.

“He wants us to follow,” Firanis realized with a frown.

“We are not—” Yarija huffily tried to stop Firanis, but the aasimar was already after the wolf. Yarija grunted, resentfully going after them. She had no choice but to follow.

The wolf lead them through dense vegetation and small ponds, frozen from winter’s cold. Yarija was not sure for how long that maddening chase went on, but eventually, in a place from the forest she had never seen before, they stopped.

Firanis grabbed Yarija’s arm and forced her to kneel along with her; they looked down the small ravine. Not very far away, surrounded by trees and shrubs, stood a single human.

“What is Felippa _doing_?” Yarija asked. Firanis tightened the grip on Yarija’s arm, urging her to quiet down. The female figure changed, the limbs lengthening, the muscles redefining; the woman tilted her head back, straw-pale hair richening and turning auburn; the nose became thinner and smaller, the lips filled and the cheeks readjusted in a more pronounced way which, along with the now angular eyes and eyebrows, gave the face an exotic air.

A face now familiar to Firanis looked around herself with a suspicious look; she sniffed the air and, when satisfied, left through the dense bushes which had been her hiding spot.

Lenya… worked for the Zhentarim?

“Firanis?” the aasimar heard Yarija’s voice calling to her but it was confined to some little corner of her mind; not even she could penetrate the horrid, thorough shock this revelation had put her into.

She’d read of these creatures once. Not a true doppelganger, no – the changed had not been nearly sublime enough for one, or as complete. But it had been enough for a Changeling.

“Who is this woman?” Firanis briskly asked.

“Vasjra’s acolyte Felippa. But…” Yarija’s face was one of puzzlement. “I’d never seen her do this.”

 “She’s one of the Nine,” Firanis said, her voice breathy. Incapable of saying anything more coherent, she turned to Yarija and, grabbing her around the shoulders, she shook her. “She’s one of the Zhentarim and she’s one of the Nine!”

“Firanis—”

Panic welled up in her and she refused to calm down. “You don’t get it, Yarija—” Firanis abruptly stopped, biting down into her lower lip, certain the way she looked at Yarija was as though she was seeing her for the very first time.

She had to stay calm. If she were to get out of here and arrive Neverwinter before Lenya did… “I have to get there.” Firanis was fighting her nerves, causing her voice to be as taut as a bow string.

“Whatever she’s doing there, it’s not going to change anything,” Yarija said. “She’s been a Nine for years and I heard some of her conversation with Vasjra—”

Cutting her off, Firanis asked. “Did she see Bishop?”

The urgency on her voice made Yarija stutter, “Well… Probably. I mean, she’s certainly seen him at some point these past years.”

If Firanis had been scared before, then now she was nothing less than utterly terrified. She _had_ to go. A message wouldn’t do. Lenya had, without a doubt, told Vasjra about her and Bishop and _Ilwyn_.

“Yarija,” Firanis said his name between two ragged breaths. “Something very bad is going to happen when she gets there this time; I know it.” She tried to keep her cool but with Ilwyn in danger; it was the most trying experience. “I need to go.”

She frowned at her, suspicious of her franticness. “Why? I mean, sure, this isn’t the best place to be, but—”

“She’s told Shemal about Bishop and me,” Firanis spoke swiftly and sharply. “And now that he knows who the father is, I think Shemal will hit me where it hurts the most.”

“Wait wait wait…” Yarija held up her hands, motioning Firanis to keep quiet. “You two _knew_ each other?” Yarija asked, her voice high-pitched with amazement.

“Eight years ago, during the Second War of Shadow,” Firanis answered. “He betrayed and left me right at the end.” She reached for Yarija’s hands, grasping them desperately. “Please, Yarija. Help me. Shemal will—”

The younger woman freed her hands and took them to her temples, which she massaged. “You will explain it to me,” she firmly said. “The thing between you and Bishop.” She squared her shoulders and looked straightly at Firanis. “If you want me to help you, you will calm down and explain it to me!”

Firanis looked at her, despair drawing ugly lines on her face. She had to breathe deeply to steady herself before she nodded. “Fine. I will.”

“Good. Because I still kind of am trying to figure out what kind of relationship you probably could have with Bishop,” Yarija said. “But I somehow I can only come up with one kind and one kind only.”

“And you are probably right,” Firanis admitted.

“Really?” Yarija lifted an eyebrow in that characteristically way of hers. “It was just sex?”

Firanis shrugged. “Mostly, yes. It was a tryst of the sort in which you never speak about your feelings to your companion.”

“Why?”

“Because I was stupid enough to care for him so much I was willing to take on the pain? And... The fact that you don’t speak of them doesn’t necessarily mean the feelings are not there. I knew that to be true; I loved him and never said a word about it either.”

“Considering your feelings and how long you two have been locked up together...”

“I had a momentary lapse of judgment last night, yes. Now please, Yarija...”

But the other woman was not quite yet done. “So it’s as Torio said. You _are_ stupidly forgiving enough to never hold a grudge.”

“I did hold a grudge for a while. I probably still would be if Aniel hadn’t poisoned Bishop.” Firanis shrugged. “I guess I am stupid enough to throw that out to keep holding on to whatever redeeming act Bishop does – no matter how small it might be. I am guilty of never truly hating him, though.”

“Which is what I find so astonishing!” Yarija exclaimed. “You’re a smart woman, Firanis. Didn’t you realize there was no future?”

Firanis smiled bashfully. “I did. I know that it's doomed, the love between Bishop and I,” Firanis softly said. “I have always known there was no future.”

“And still you kept on going,” Yarija remarked. It wasn't meant to be a critique, Firanis reckoned – it was more like a simple statement of fact.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It's the most foolish thing, though. He's hurt me in the past and he's hurting me now but...” Her voice only calmed when she took a hand to her heart. “I just can't seem to be able to forget him.”

The other woman licked her lips, slowly, as though a thought was being formed in the mind just then; afterwards, she looked at Firanis with a raised eyebrow. “Is your daughter―”

The smile Firanis gave Yarija completely dispensed the reply she whispered. “Yes.”

Yarija's jaw fell in awe. “Oh Gods,” she exhaled.

“Right. The Gods.” The aasimar shook her head. “One of them was to blame for both Ilwyn and I nearly dying – but right at the end, she realized it'd be more amusing to watch how I'd cope with having a child who looked just like the father.” She did a pronounced pause between each one of the last four words; the she laughed. “She looks so much like him, Yarija, that even though no one knew about Bishop and I eight years ago, they all gawp and gasp when they see her now. We had a meeting with all the Nine the night before I came here and they were staring at me as if I'd done a great crime.”

“You're angry,” Yarija suddenly blurted out, staring at Firanis's closed fists.

“Of course I am!” Firanis exclaimed. “They don't know what I've been through and yet they judge me!”

“People...” Yarija frowned, intertwining her hands together before continuing, “People tend to do that a lot. Especially when it's someone well-loved, they always find a way to drag that person down to mediocrity. You see it everywhere, from little children to grown adults.” She sighed. “People envy that which they cannot have.”

Firanis nodded. “True.”

“Still,” Yarija looked at her again. “What are you going to do about Bishop? You can't keep on going like this – if Shemal finds out―”

“He'll kill him.”

“Worse than that. You don't cross Shemal, Firanis - not right under his nose – and enjoy a swift, sane death.”

Something in Firanis stirred as she pondered on Yarija's words. Her chest clenched painfully for a moment and she buried her head in her hands.

The positions were reversed, the situation was different... But just like what had happened eight years ago, someone was going to walk out in fear – only that this time around, it would not be Bishop.

It was going to be her.

“You understand now why I have to go, Yarija.”

“You can’t be fully certain that was what Felippa came here to tell Shemal,” Yarija pointed out.

“But I am, Yarija,” Firanis confessed. “And I know that if I don’t get to Neverwinter before Lenya? Ilwyn will pay.”

A line was etched between Yarija’s eyebrows. “I still don’t think Shemal will act on that.”

“I think he will.” Firanis’s tone had hardened to the point of steel. “He is obsessed with easing the heat the curse has brought him and that means having me all to himself. Ilwyn embodies the fact that I will never fully be his and now that he’s discovered who’s beat him, he will stop at nothing to hurt both Bishop and myself – that means using the one person who connects us. And if there’s a life I’m not willing to risk, it’s Ilwyn’s.”

Yarija finally rose from her kneeling position and Firanis followed her. She balanced back and forth on her toes, thinking. She was smart enough to figure this one out, wasn’t she?

“Yarija?” Firanis called. Yarija could see she was truly desperate and it was not for her own sake. It was for the little girl – Ilwyn – and Yarija was certain this wasn’t any sort of feigned affection. Firanis wasn’t like Shemal. Not at all.

Which was why she would help her.

“I think...” Yarija turned her bright yellow eyes to the aasimar. “I think I have a plan. But first we need Torio.”

 

 

Torio was, much to their luck, waiting for Firanis inside the white bedroom. “Now where have you been?” she asked as soon as they’d set a foot inside the room.

“Torio,” Firanis spoke swiftly, almost out of breath. “I need to leave. Now.”

Torio’s gasp was muffled by Karnwyr, who noisily made his way to Bishop’s side, whimpering from attention. Bishop gaped at Firanis, his hand petting the wolf’s head almost of its own accord.

Firanis ignored him and focused her sole attention in Torio. “The Zhentarim have infiltrated the Nine. With a changeling.”

The Ambassador paled. “I take it that you didn’t know?” Yarija asked.

“No,” Torio admitted. “How did you find that out?”

“Karnwyr there.” Firanis nodded towards the wolf, still lavishing in Bishop’s attention. “I don’t know why or how, but he took us to the place where she changed shapes.” She held Torio’s hands in her own, trying to make a connection with the Ambassador. “Torio, please. I need to get to Neverwinter before she does.”

“Are you insane?” Rekat’s voice rose suddenly and he fell out from the shadows in the corner. “If you do that, it means we’re dead!”

“Not exactly,” Yarija spoke. “We just have to make it look like she’s dominated all the three of us.”

“It’s _insane_!” Rekat shouted.

“Rekat.” Firanis went to his side, lowering her voice so that only he could hear her. She was almost sure her anguish to get out of Luskan was palpable. “If I don’t go, the person I love the most will suffer.”

“The person you love the most?” Rekat snickered angrily. “So I suppose you’ve been shagging Bishop just for the fun of it? I thought you were different, I really did—”

“Wait! How do you know about Bishop?” Firanis asked, annoyingly tugging at Rekat’s sleeve. “Did Aniel tell you?”

“I _saw_ it! And from what Bishop told me...” Rekat paused and closed his eyes. “Whatever. We’re just toys to you, like we are to Shemal.”

“Rekat.” Firanis had said his name like it was a reprimand. “It’s not another man. It’s my daughter.”

“Your da—?”

 “Hush!” Firanis almost had to scream to stop Rekat. “Before you can say it, yes, Bishop the father. But he does not know and I don’t want him to!”

“Why?”

Firanis smirked smugly. “You’ve heard the story from him. If I told him we shared a child… don’t you think he’d say I was only trying to tie him down?”

“That does sound a lot like Bishop, yes,” Rekat admitted. “ _Still_ …”

“You can come with us!” Firanis offered. “Your problem is Shemal’s punishment and if you’re not here…”

Suddenly, Rekat’s face was marked by painful lines. “I can’t leave. I thought after what I learned today that I could but…” Rekat’s watery green eyes met hers and Firanis felt that he was truly agonizing over something. “I really want to but I can’t.”

Firanis let a hand rest on his shoulder. “Rekat…”

He quietly brushed her hand away. “I’ll help you.”

Firanis couldn’t say that Rekat hadn’t arisen some concern in her, but right now, she couldn’t let it hinder her. So instead, she bowed so deeply she thought her back would break. “Thank you.”

Then, there was Bishop.

Who just snorted.

“Whatever. Go to Neverwinter if that’s what you want.”

Firanis’s face softened. Not this wall again. Please, not again… “Bishop…”

“I don’t care that you won’t tell me why. Just go.”

 _It’s because she’ll hurt my daughter!_ She wanted to scream but just couldn’t tell him that. Bishop would probably think she was trying to bind him to her by using their child and… Firanis didn’t want him to walk away on her again because he couldn’t bear the attachment – even if that meant she was going to be the one walking away this time around.

So, she clumsily walked to the bed and crawled towards him. Her hands went up to frame his face, so much like Ilwyn’s… Tears stung her eyes and she very nearly hiccupped. “Trust me, Bishop. Just once, please _trust me_.”

Even like this, Bishop was still trying to avoid to meet her gaze. Firanis shook his face, crying. “You have every reason to trust me! I’ve never once lied to you, Bishop. So please, please…”

Bishop’s arms came around her and he squeezed Firanis so tightly, she couldn’t move. “Stop shaking me and go.”

Torio grunted and spoke in Bishop’s direction. “Trying to redeem yourself for what you did to her, are you?”

“Beat it, Torio,” Bishop snarled. Firanis drew away from him but before she leapt out of the bed, she kissed him full on the lips but just as Bishop was about to kiss back, she tore their lips apart and, looking at Bishop straight in the eyes and firmly said, “Thank you.”

“Now that we’ve all agreed,” Yarija said.

“We’re going to have to make it seem like Firanis subdued the three of you,” Torio breathlessly completed, then asked, “Have you got your powers back yet?”

“You lost your powers?” Bishop asked.

Firanis shook her head. “Not in their entirety. They have been growing stronger, though.” Turning to Bishop, she added. “I had to open a portal to get out of Merdelain. It almost sucked me dry.”

“Well, that you’re not in your full power is surely relieving to know when we’re going into an animal-infested forest with nothing but a knife.”

Firanis squinted. “Wait… _We_?”

“What do you think? My cover’s probably been blown for years. Now what I know of it, don’t you think I’ll be coming with you?”

“Makes sense,” Rekat noted. “Now… how do you plan on leaving us?”

“Firanis once froze down an inn with that curse of hers,” Bishop offered. “She could do it again.”

“He’s right,” the aasimar conceded.

“The amount of energy you’ll have to use to freeze me would be bigger than an inn’s,” said Rekat. “In a way, I counter your cold.”

“She can just clonk the three of us in the head and be done with it,” Yarija clapped, trying to hurry things along. “Now, let’s break a vase or two and make it look like a fight. Afterwards, we’ll decide where you’d most likely ambush us were you to really do this without our help. Then you knock us out and run.” She grabbed Firanis by the shoulders. “Don’t take anything. Just run.”

“You’re crazy if you think she’ll survive like that,” Bishop snidely criticized. “Take Karnwyr. He can help you find your way and he can hunt better than any of you.”

Firanis felt a large part of her melting. “Bishop, I can’t…”

“Just take him, will you?”

Bishop’s face told her there was no room left for discussion. Just then, Firanis didn’t want to leave at all. She wanted to stay with him but another look at his face reminded her of Ilwyn and her resolution to go was back in full strength. “I…”

“He’s right. Take the wolf.” With the ball of her foot, Yarija knocked a large vase over.

 

“My Lord,” Vasjra bowed was short, but respectful, “I believe there are two things you should know.”

From his seat, Shemal eyed the cleric over. “What is it?”

“We have discovered who the man your sister was involved with is,” Vasjra said. “It’s Bishop.”

Shemal’s hand broke the glass of wine he had been holding but for all intents and purposes, he remained steady. “The second?”

“When Aniel went to her room with dinner… Yarija, Rekat and Bishop were knocked out cold and…” Vasjra bit down her lip, almost afraid of the reaction this piece of news would garner. “Firanis was not in her room.”

Vasjra had seen her Lord angry before, so there were very few of his outburst which still managed to knock the breath out of her lungs.

This one, however… It left her fearing for her life.

One moment, Shemal had been sitting at a table, a rich dinner of duck steaming in front of him, his expression abnormally calm. The next, he had knocked the table over, screaming in undiluted rage. “I treat her like a queen and this is how she repays me! By _lying_ to me! By _deserting_ me!” Vasjra managed to discern between the nonsensical cries. “Her stubbornness to take care of him! The way she denied me!” There were sparks in the air and soon, the table, the curtains… the _whole_ room was on fire!

“That _scent_!” Shemal kept on screaming. “How couldn’t I identify that scent!”

Vasjra hadn’t been able to catch anything beyond that. She was cowering from the flames, trying to breathe as the air thickened around her. It was just as she was about to faint that the fire was put out and the air cleared.

“No. She has to pay… and I believe I know just the way.” Shemal eyed Vasjra’s slumped form, racked by a violent fit for coughing. “Once you can get up, have Aniel get the girl.”

Shemal passed Vasjra and she involuntarily recoiled from him. When she stopped hearing his steps, Vasjra let herself lay on the floor, arms and legs sprawled to help her relax and take bigger breaths.

But Shemal wasn’t gone. He had just stopped walking and, when she turned her head to the door, Shemal was at its threshold, from where he spoke.

“Oh, and throw those three in prison, will you? Their weakness will be dealt with in time.” Shemal then paused, hitting his nose with his index finger. Then it fell onto his mouth and he looked up at the ceiling. There was a reason his younger sister had left without the ranger and Shemal got the feeling it had something to do with their little spawn. “No, strike that. Throw Rekat and Yarija only.”

His face acquired an entirely innocent look Ethlinn knew all too well. Shemal always wore that expression whenever he was concocting something entirely devilish and thoroughly gritty.

Then Shemal unleashed that perfect, fiery smile and said, “I have something else in store for the ranger.”

 

 


	16. Ritornello: Disappearance, Race, Bonds

**_Ritornello_ **

_“You truly place too much confidence on your Queen,” she evenly commented._

_“I know her limits,” he softly replied. “Just as I know that before you win, you have to lose.”_

_“Even if losing costs her her life?” She didn’t seem to be criticizing or baiting him. Rather, she seemed curious about a foreign strategy._

_He petted one of his pawns, moving him gently across the board. “It won’t.”_

**Sixteen**

_Disappearance_

_Race_

_Bonds_

 

 

“Seer.” Tyavain bowed deeply. “Words cannot express how deeply thankful I am.

“You don’t need to bow.” The drow took Tyavain’s head into her hands, bringing the girl back up. “I’ve already told you – it was nothing. Just remember what I’ve told you.”

“I will,” Tyavain whispered and humbly grabbed the Seer’s hands to place upon them a humbled kiss. She then looked at Radrien and Aarin, smiling sweetly. “Aunt Radrien, uncle Aarin... thank you. For everything.”

Radrien pull Tyavain into a tight hug. “You don’t have to thank us for that.”

Tyavain pulled away slightly. “But aunt—”

“Radrien is right, Tyavain.” Aarin squeezed Tyavain’s shoulder tenderly. “If you need anything else, you have but to ask.”

Tyavain’s face twitched momentarily, and because she didn’t trust her voice, she nodded and made her way to her Friesian horse, which Nevalle was finishing saddling. With a quick wave of her hand, he got up and approached Radrien.

 “You know.. your information would have proven more valuable had it come much earlier.” Nevalle’s tone suggested a hard critique – one Radrien was quick to brush off. “It would be of much help to everyone if you just came back and apologized, Radrien.”

“I regret nothing.” Radrien arrogantly lifted her chin. “What do I have to apologize for, then?”

Nevalle shook his head; afterwards, his brown eyes flicked to Aarin. “You know there’s still a place for you, should you wish to return.”

“There’s a reason I left,” said Aarin. “Just as there’s one I’ve never returned.”

Nevalle arched his brows. “You think this is the best way to help a city you’ve devoted so many years of your life to?”

“Yes. Perhaps I have devoted more years to Neverwinter than I should have; perhaps not. Either way, I guarantee you up until now, there would have been no one in Neverwinter who could have used the information we had.”

“Truly? Why is that?”

Aarin smiled enigmatically. “Take care of Tyavain, will you?”

It was with that rather dubious remark that Aarin left the scene, leaving the Knight standing dumbfounded in front of Radrien. “He is right,” she said. “And if any harm comes to Tyavain while she’s with you,” Radrien paused melodramatically. “I will hunt you down and kill you.”

“Nothing you haven’t done already, I am sure.” He sighed. “For what it’s worth, thank you. Even if a little late, your information still was helpful.”

“Whatever you say.” Radrien rolled her eyes and then shouted to her niece. “Be careful!”

Tyavain’s lips curved upwards and, with a word to Malin, the three of them were off.

“Even if your reasons were wrong, both you and Aarin were right,” the Seer softly spoke. “For anyone else, those would be just detailed profiles but for Tyavain...”

“She’ll use what we’ve given her to find the true names of those working for the Zhentarim,” Radrien finished. “No one will use this kind of information better than her.”

A pause. “I’m worried still,” admitted the Seer as Tyavain’s silhouette disappeared among the trees. She felt Radrien inquisitively turning to eye her, silently requesting she went on. “I cannot see the end of Tyavain’s path. I can’t even see where she’ll go after this ordeal is over.” She paused and her voice acquired a dark tone. “Three months and a half from now, everything will be black. Like the Abyss.”

 

When Rekat woke up, an ensemble of drums playing inside his head. He shook the throbbing off and upon trying to move, he realized his arms were spread and he was chained to a wall. It didn’t take long for him to recognize this as one of the cells in the Luskan prison and that, next to him, chained in the same manner, was a still unconscious Yarija.

He groaned and just as he was thinking of a way to escape his bonds, he felt a too-familiar ethereal breeze caressing his skin.

“Esmerelle,” he said, his voice even more hoarse than usual.

Her all-green eyes were filled with sorrow, as was her speech. “You did good, Rekat.”

“ _Hmpf_. Did I?” Rekat had perhaps put a bit of cruelty in his reply and he felt sorry for it the moment Esmerelle closed her eyes to avoid a bigger reaction.

“I am sorry, Rekat. You were my ward and I’ve put you in danger because there was someone else I wanted to see safe more than you.” The shiradi bit down her lip. “It was just a risk I had to take and hopefully, the costs won’t be too high… for neither of you.”

Rekat furrowed his brow. “You are talking about Firanis.”

“Yes.” She smiled, all too remorsefully but said nothing else. It made Rekat impatient.

“Why?” he asked. “Why so much for her?”

“I doubt you’ll ever understand this—”

“Make me.”

“A mother’s love is absolute, Rekat,” said Esmerelle, taking a steadfast hand to her heart. “I would do anything to see my daughter safe – just like she’s doing now.”

Rekat blinked. “Firanis is your daughter.”

“Yes. But I do care for you a great deal as well, Rekat and that’s the reason I am here now.” Esmerelle acquired a more firm stance and she looked at Rekat straight in the eye. “Firanis has already realized that Shemal seeks to share his despair with everyone he comes in contact with,” Esmerelle briskly said. “That way, he will become one with the people and it will allow him to shed his curse on the land. He’s been desperate for a while and without Firanis, it will only aggravate.”

“And that’s supposed to help me how?”

“Rekat, you can’t stay here. You have to go.” She pointedly looked at Yarija for a moment before turning back to Rekat once more. “And be sure to stay with her. She has a very important part to play in this as well.”

Rekat snickered sourly . “If you know so much, Esmerelle, then why didn’t you tell me who Aniel was?”

Immediately, Esmerelle’s features softened once more. She lifted a hand to Rekat’s face and smiled ruefully. “Because it does not matter… and because it’s love.”

With that softly spoken sentence, Esmerelle’s ghostly touch – and her – vanished, leaving Rekat with a bitter taste in his tongue. How did it not matter? Shemal was only his half-brother, true, but that still made Aniel his niece. Just why wasn’t he warned before? Why did Esmerelle let him fall so madly for the half-succubus when she knew it would end like this?

Slowly, Rekat felt a wave of hatred for Esmerelle. She could have stopped this, but she hadn’t – and he could not dwell on it now. Even though right now Rekat never wanted to see the shiradi again, she still had a point. He had to leave. Now.

Shemal had decided to lock them up… Well then, he just had to free himself first.

Being a thief required amazing flexibility and Rekat, being one of the best around Faerûn, had trained enough to be able to bend his body at almost inhumane angles. It was just a matter of time before one of his arms was free and, a few minutes after, the other.

Immediately, Rekat moved to check the lock. As he’d suspected, he wouldn’t be able to open it manually. Shemal wasn’t stupid; he knew what Rekat was capable of and the thief was almost certain the leader of this branch of the Zhentarim had expected Rekat would free himself – and eventually, Yarija.

So rather than losing any time, Rekat decided to do just that. Soon enough he lowered Yarija to the ground, the shackles which had bound her now wide open and clattering against the wall.

Yarija groaned at that sound and almost immediately, opened her eyes and jumped to her feet to assume a defensive stance. Then she saw Rekat and, with a light _harrumph_ , looked about herself. “So we’re prisoners.”

“Not for long, hopefully,” said Rekat. “We have to get out of here.”

“Well, the door’s not open, so I’m assuming it’s magically sealed.” Yarija paced around the room. “We have to get the key.”

“We do.” Rekat examined the disquiet woman in front of him. “Yarija?”

“Yes?”

“Shouldn’t Bishop be with us?”

She stopped. “Frankly, I’m not surprised he’s not. Shemal’s probably already taken care of him.”

Rekat shrugged. “Probably. Although it’s not like Shemal to act so quickly when he plots a revenge.”

Taking one hand to the side of her head, Yarija exhaled profoundly. “I would care about that, Rekat, but right now, I’m trying to think of a way to escape this cell and in due course, this city.”

“Shemal knows us; he’s probably warded this place against all the means of escape any of us would have used.” Rekat sunk to the ground and sat with his legs and arms crossed. “Unless we pull something completely out of what our ordinary selves would do, there’s no way we’re leaving.”

“Something we’d never do, huh?” Yarija tapped her chin, a thoughtful eyebrow raised. “That might not be so hard to pull off.”

Rekat snorted. “You’re joking, right?”

“Please.” Yarija rolled her eyes. “The father of the child Shemal abhors so much has been living right under his nose and it took him a while to find that out. Shemal doesn’t know everything.”

“Bishop just got lucky.”

“I say he played his cards right; he just lost because he was forced to show his hand prematurely.” Yarija raised one shoulder. “Lucky for us, I managed to keep mine hidden.”

Rekat blinked, his whole body growing lax in amazement. “You, who were born into the Zhentarim, have managed to keep something about yourself a secret.”

Yarija smirked; even in the darkness, Rekat could see her white teeth gleaming. “I had a perfect hand and my adversary was overconfident I would never lie to him. That’s why I’ve won.”

“Yarija…”

She held up a hand. “Nine years ago, Shemal sent me to the Elan in the hopes they’d turn me into a psion. They succeeded but my psionic… parents, as it were, and myself thought it best if we didn’t tell him.”

“psions,” Rekat stated. “You were turned into an Elan psion.”

“Yes.” Yarija inclined her head. “But before sending me over, Shemal placed wards all over my skin so that I would eventually return to him… and they served their purpose. A year later, I was back but kept my mouth shut about what had become of me.”

 “Smart of you.” Rekat’s tone was slightly dry.

Yarija snickered. “That’s another part of it. I’ve never allowed Shemal to know how exactly smart I am.” She cocked an eyebrow and, under her breath, added, “Oddly, Firanis _did_ catch up on that. We’re way too at ease when she’s around.”

“True. I think that just as easily as Shemal instills fear, she exudes calm.” Rekat rose to his feet, impatience building up in his bones. “At any rate, what are your plans?”

Yarija tilted her head to both sides alternatively. “The warden is bound to come with food sooner or later. I’ll then use my powers to take the key.”

Rekat nodded. “I don’t know how you’ll do that – but I’ll trust you.”

“It’s just like when you were babysitting me…” Yarija’s smile was lopsided. “You don’t have a choice.”

 

 

Firanis was not certain where exactly she was but she did know that roughly a day had passed since she’d left Luskan.

Her sight was blurry, her limbs a cramping mess. But still, Firanis kept on walking, despite the cold wind which slashed at her face and tore through her dress. She was dirty, tired, miserable and despair clung to her like a bad odor. She _had_ to run away, she _had_ to reach Neverwinter and be safe from the dark temptation which lurked in Shemal…

She looked behind to find Torio following her close by. Firanis had to admit, for someone who seldom saw the outside of a city, the Ambassador was surprisingly resilient and hardly complained about the conditions. Torio even appeared to be holding up better than Firanis was and the aasimar was certain Torio had never adventured.

Then again, neither did she had something inside of her which had suddenly woken up hungry.

Firanis coughed, noticing the night was so thick she could barely see ahead of her nose. And she was so damned _cold_ again… With something close to a stab at her heart, she longed for Bishop, to feel his hands against her skin, nails scratching, arousing… but he was with the Zhents, making sure they _didn’t_ find her. He and Rekat and Yarija had risked so much when they let her go… which was why she couldn’t stop now. Not until she reached Neverwinter, not until…

She sagged onto the floor, breathless. Her chest ached with each movement; her head hurt so much Firanis wondered if it hadn’t been crushed between two walls. Torio knelt down beside her but even though she was so close, her voice seemed to be very far away. She shook Firanis but the aasimar only coughed in response. She was growing feverish and her skin was covered in cold sweat.

Then Karnwyr came beside her, licking her hand with a whimper. Firanis weakly lifted her hand to pet the wolf’s coarse fur, drawing a little bit of comfort from its familiarity. But she was still so cold, so hopeless…  

Her skin hummed with vibration and she realized Karnwyr had begun growling. _Someone’s coming_ , her mind reeled and she forced herself up, her legs like jelly. She had to run to Neverwinter before this person found her, she had to…

“Firanis?”

A gasp left Firanis’s lips. She knew that voice, she _knew_ …

Tears began flowing free from her eyes, spilling down her cheeks and into her dress; they cleared her sight, lifting the darkness like a veil. Such longing in his voice, such caring, such pain… He looked so haggard, so haunted and it was all her fault…

Firanis laid a hand on Karnwyr’s head and the wolf calmed down under her absent-minded touch.

Then, with the little strength she still had left and no coherent thought, Firanis started towards her newly arrived companion and flung herself into his arms, sobbing. “Oh father…”

Daeghun’s arms came around her awkwardly, as he was a few inches shorter than her; but as disproportioned as the embrace was to his personality, it made Firanis feel, whole, relieved. Her father was here. Her _real_ father had searched for her, her real father had found her… her real father was _here_.

She felt his hands tenderly smoothing back her tangled hair, his lithe form holding her hiccupping one steadily. “Ah, child,” he whispered, emotion straining his voice in a too-alien way. “You always did shine in the dark.” 

Firanis let out a short, choked laughter which caused her to choke on her sobs. Even now, as tired and as dirty as she was, her skin still emitted a very soft translucent glow. “You never stopped looking. Eight years and you never stopped looking.”

“It took long. But I did find you.” Daeghun held Firanis at an arm’s length examining her closely. “You are different.” Firanis blushed slightly.

His gaze then shifted to Torio, to whom he nodded. “Ambassador.”

“I’ve resigned from that post,” Torio said.

“For you to be here, I deduced as much. The last time we met you weren’t running through the woods.”

“Your daughter saw fit to leave Luskan. I saw fit to accompany her.”

“Luskan?” Daeghun asked in Firanis’s direction.

“Yes.” Firanis then proceeded into shortly briefing Daeghun on her journey through the planes and how Shemal had named her the price for a temporary truce once she’d found her way back.

“Then why did you leave?”

Firanis inhaled deeply, mentally bracing herself for what she was about to tell him. “I got pregnant before the battle in the Vale of Merdelain. My child is the reason why I have to get to Neverwinter fast.”

Daeghun always was a very respectful person when it came to silence. He had once told Firanis that when her mother had said nothing about Firanis’s father, he hadn’t questioned her on it further – and he was doing the same now.

“Karnwyr was guiding us,” said Firanis. “But…”

A curious flash passed through Daeghun’s eyes and Firanis couldn’t help but wonder if he recognized the wolf; if he did, he did not comment on it. “That needs no asking, child. Of course I’ll get you there faster.”

That single sentenced eased Firanis’s mind quite a bit. Her father would be guiding her. She would get to Ilwyn in time.

Everything would be fine.

Ilwyn held on to Casavir’s tightly as she watched the commotion inside the Castle. Ever since the man named Rimal had arrived people had even gone busier than before. She had overheard the talk about a psion and even though she did not know what it was, it must be something very powerful… after all, people had fallen into disarray ever since they’d known about its existence.

That had also been the same day Lord Viss and Lady Ekeilma had arrived. Ilwyn thought their souls surprisingly curious; they were more sensible than everyone else she’d met, as though they were in touch with something not physical.

She had seen a soul like theirs once before, belonging to Lady Yarija. But the similarities between her and Lord Viss and Lady Ekeilma didn’t end there. They too were very white, to the point she wondered if they were sick, and had hair of the color of fire. And the eyes… Just now, as Lord Viss knelt down in front of her, she got the feeling she had been eyed that very same detailed way before.

“You are a very curious thing, little one,” he said with a very smooth tone. If it weren’t for uncle Casavir’s distrustful grasp on her hand, it would have made Ilwyn feel safe instantly. “What is your name?”

“What do you want with her?” Casavir held Ilwyn closer to him, circling her shoulders with an arm.

Lord Viss looked at her uncle and, after a few moments, said, “You are not her father.”

A stab of hurt at uncle Casavir’s soul. “That doesn’t mean I cannot protect her.”

“No.” Viss’s gaze was on Ilwyn once more. “You would know if I wanted to harm you, wouldn’t you?”

Ilwyn nodded slowly.

“Then tell me your name.”

Ilwyn shyly sought Casavir’s permission to speak with her gaze; when he so hesitantly squeezed her shoulder, she knew she had it. “Ilwyn,” she said.

“Ilwyn.” Lord Viss rolled her name around his tongue. “An uncommon name – which I have to say, suits you just fine.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Your mind is truly exquisite… It’s even interesting to one such as myself, who has seen many of them.”

A couple of lines of curiosity were etched between Ilwyn’s brows. “You can see people’s souls too?”

“No, child.” He tapped his head. “Minds. It’s a little bit different and a little bit the same. And I hadn’t encountered one so fascinating as yours ever since Yarija.”

Ilwyn’s eyes widened. “You know Lady Yarija?”

“I do. She is my daughter, in a way.” He tilted his head sideways. “She does not have a voice as enthralling as yours, however. Was it you who was singing in the garden this morning?”

“Yes.” A radiating smile dawned on Ilwyn’s face. “I sing everyday for my mom. I know that if she hears me, she’ll be safe.”

Lord Viss’s expression softened for the first time since she’d met him. “You’re a truly extraordinary person, little Ilwyn. Don’t you ever let anyone make you think otherwise.” His stance hardened when he rose up to eye uncle Casavir directly in the eye, which, Ilwyn noted, he didn’t have to look up to do, like most people did. “You think you have an idea of what kind of treasure you’re guarding.” He shook his head. “But you do not.”

Lord Viss left then and Ilwyn could feel Casavir’s steady hold on her faltering. She was about to turn to her uncle when Lady Lenya of the Nine came into view a woman so beautiful she captivated the attention of anyone she passed by. Not even uncle Casavir, who was the most controlled man Ilwyn knew, could stop himself from looking at her.

“You’re needed in the War Room, Casavir,” said Lady Lenya. “It’s urgent.”

Ilwyn had always found it strange that she couldn’t see Lady Lenya’s soul – at least not entirely. She had the feeling the Lady was not entirely human but her own mother was not a true human and she could still see all of her mother’s soul.

Lady Lenya… she’d always caused Ilwyn do grow uneasy, like reading her soul left a sour, lemony taste on her mouth.

Her uncle blinked and forced himself to look at the Lady of the Nine. “I cannot leave Ilwyn alone until Elanee returns.”

Lady Lenya waved her hand in dismissal. “Nonsense, she will be fine.” When uncle Casavir did not let go, she threw her arms about herself, sighing loudly. “Fine, I’ll stay with her. Just go before Lord Nasher loses his temper.”

“She wouldn’t mind staying with us.” The woman next to Lady Lenya smiled down at Ilwyn, and it was so perfect the girl blinked. She really couldn’t describe her; the woman was just so beautiful, so flawless that all words she knew were not enough; she seemed to have sprouted out of a fairytale, one of the princesses with whom Knights helplessly fell in love after taking a single, sole look at them. Yes, she invoked that sensation… fairytale beautiful was the best term Ilwyn could come up with.

Her soul, though, was a completely different matter.

It was partially like _his_ soul, burning even more strongly than flames on a fireplace; some of it resembled a part of Lady Tyavain’s, except that this woman’s was more like a charming spell than a conflicting voice; the rest was pretty much like Ilwyn’s own soul. It had a trace of the upper planes only that the charming spell was squishing it down like a bug. And connecting all those parts was a feeling so strong it nearly drew tears out of Ilwyn’s eyes.

Her mother had had holes in her soul but she’d taken on a different approach: she had accepted them and Ilwyn sometimes had got the feeling that her mother didn’t regret having them there.

This woman… she was broken. The feeling which was supposed to be mending her patchwork soul had been torn apart and now she was like a porcelain jar which had shattered upon falling onto the floor.

She knew this woman was evil but… she was so compelling and, in a way, so much like her mother Ilwyn couldn’t resist taking her extended hand… It was as soft as Ilwyn was expecting but also, it was warm – so warm it drove away that little bit of cold Ilwyn had always felt.

“Who are you?” Casavir asked the woman.

“Casavir, she’s with _me_ ,” Lenya abruptly snapped as though the Paladin was accusing her of something. “Do you think I’d bring in people who’d endanger Neverwinter?”

“No, but—”

“Then go,” Lady Lenya commanded with steely half-lidded eyes.

Casavir squatted down and tenderly cupped the side of Ilwyn’s face. “Be careful, Ilwyn. Do _not_ go anywhere until your aunt Elanee returns.”

“I won’t, uncle.” Ilwyn stood on the tip of her toes to plant a kiss upon Casavir’s cheek. The Paladin playfully scuffled the hair on top of Ilwyn’s head before leaving her alone with Lady Lenya and the beautiful woman.

“Say, little Ilwyn,” Lady Lenya’s voice was soft and sleek and the visible part of her soul twisted with dry satisfaction. “How would you like to meet your father?”

 

 

With her niece gone, Radrien was finally able to collapse heavily on her bed, no longer fearing if Tyavain was having an attack in the room next to hers.

Radrien’s sleep, however, was not as tranquil as she might have hoped. She dreamed and her dreams were of her niece, still in her convalescent state. Radrien was alone with her and she did not know what to do to comfort the unnaturally stiff form of her niece, so she wrapped one arm around Tyavain’s neck, bringing the girl’s head tenderly against her breast before she kissed the top of it. “ _We were worried_ ,” Radrien murmured. “ _Gone for a year without so much as a warning…_ ”She held Tyavain closer. “ _Oh, Tyavain, had I known your return would mean pain in your heart, I would never have wished for it._ ”

Tyavain did not move, did not speak. Tangling her hands in the girl’s fiery locks, Radrien kept on talking as softly as she could. “ _Yet here you are and I am at a loss, little wing, for I know not why you returned – just as I do not know why you are like this. Please, Tyavain, talk to me and tell me what it is that afflicts you if only to have your burden shared with someone…_ ”

Radrien kept on running her hands through Tyavain’s hair for what seemed to be an eternity. Her niece had no reaction, no—

 “ _I forced her to live_ ,” Tyavain confessed. “ _She would have died halfway through it, but I made her live!_ ” Her voice, much like her hands and their surroundings, shook uncontrollably. “ _I wanted her to feel pain without measure, and she did; still I think it was nothing compared to what I felt. I made her pay and I’m still feeling empty!_ ”

Tyavain turned her blurry face upwards to stare into her aunt’s light green eyes; her whispered voice was throaty and faint when she said, “ _It was only love._ ”

That single sentence had made the earth tremble. But Tyavain was not done. She kept on talked and, as she did so, the world crumbled around them. Radrien tried to hold on to her niece, to protect the girl from the falling sky but just as it was about to fall on their heads, she woke up.

Radrien did not move, having immediately recognized the familiar place she was in; instead, after she forced her body to relax, she just leaned deeper into Aarin’s arms, looking down almost too guiltily. The lines of her face wavered and Aarin could only caress them in the hopes they would ease. “Radrien,” he whispered tenderly. “Do you need to go?”

“I’m so sorry, Aarin.” Radrien sniffed softly. “I have been selfish all along.”

“You have not—”

“I have. I asked you to leave everything behind for me and I cannot do the same.” She took his hand from her face and placed it on her lap. She lightly traced the dark lines on the palm of Aarin’s hand as she spoke. “You loved Neverwinter and still you left it for me…”

“Please do not compare your niece to a city.” Aarin’s tone was almost berating.

“But…”

“Radrien, Neverwinter needed me no more. Tyavain, however, needs you.” Radrien looked up all of a sudden and it was impossible for Aarin not to smile at her wide-eyed expression. “And for as long as we’re needed, we’ll be there for her.”

Radrien was the sort of person who had always been unable to know what to say whenever someone displayed affection towards her… and Aarin was a bit of the same. Perhaps that was the reason, perhaps not but Radrien was certain there was no one else in the world she loved more than the man who was holding her.

Without ever leaving his embrace, Radrien turned to straddle his waist and delicately hold his face on her hands. She and Aarin needed no words – not when they so instinctively knew each other.

So she kissed him, slowly at first but then her own body began demanding more and so, she increased the pace. And it was there, on his lips and tongue as they moved against hers, on his hands as they moved through her body, on the way their bodies were pressed together… It was everywhere, the one thing that had brought and kept them together.

Radrien broke the kiss. “Love,” she whispered.

“Mmm?” Aarin pulled Radrien’s nightshirt over her head. When she dropped her arms, her hands fell on his chest, her splayed fingers gently travelling to his breeches.

“Not that.” Radrien kissed his jaw. “I love you.”

Aarin snickered. “I know you do. Just the same way you know I love you back.”

Loving each other was exactly what they did that night and, after they were done, Radrien set her head down on her pillow, the feel of Aarin’s hand on hers so comforting she knew it would drive away all her nightmares.

But as luck would have it, she didn’t get to sleep like that for long. Just as Radrien thought she’d fallen asleep, there was a rapping on the door.

Moaning, she sat on the bed and lit up a candle before looking at Aarin, who was frowning. “At this hour?”

Radrien got out of bed and covered herself with a long robe before walking down the stairs, Aarin following closely behind with a ready dagger on his hand. Radrien looked through the small peephole and gasped; the door was unbolted and wide open mere seconds later. On the other side was a single cloaked figure, clearly female, lithe and petite.

Radrien didn’t even had to wait for the woman to throw back her hood to know who it was. “Hello, sister.”

 

 

Firanis strode fiercely into the main hall of Castle Never, not paying any attention to the surprised calls of her name. There was only one person she had to see and it was Ilwyn. Everyone else could wait.

She all but ran through the various corridors of the Castle until she finally found the room which had been assigned to her and Ilwyn. She threw the door open and saw no one inside.

“Empty.”

She made to turn but a chittering noise caught her attention. Karnwyr barked and approached the bed, legs bent in attack.

“No, Karnwyr,” Firanis commanded and the wolf looked at her with a most confused gaze in his eyes. Firanis fell on her knees and lifted the bed covers, sticking a hand underneath the bed. “Araga, come out.”

The chittering noise stopped and Firanis felt the hard shell of the spider’s body scraping her hand before it jumped onto her arm, which she withdrew. Holding the spider in front of her face, she asked. “Where’s Ilwyn?”

The chittering resumed, hysterical and nervous, causing the bad feeling on Firanis’s stomach to grow. But Firanis wasn’t Elanee and she could not understand what the spider was telling her.

She had always disliked the spider and had always believed it wouldn’t stick around for long. Now Firanis was berating herself over and over again for never listening to either Elanee or Ilwyn whenever they’d tried to make her understand at least the gist of what Araga said.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. She had been so stupid and thick and close-minded. She should have known better, she should _have_!

“ _Firanis_!?” She recognized Nevalle’s voice but when she turned, she was a little surprised to find Tyavain standing beside him.

“Where’s Lenya?” Firanis asked bluntly, all the nervousness she was feeling underlying her tone.

Nevalle frowned at the aasimar. “She got here just a little bit before you – we sent her to call Casavir.”

Firanis’s eyes widened to an almost impossible circle. “She came in?”

“Yes. But why are _you_ here?”

As Firanis closed the distance between them with a couple of large steps, Araga climbed to her shoulder, leaving both her arms free for her to grasp the sides of Nevalle’s shirt. “Nevalle, she’s with the Zhentarim.” She shook him fiercely, unable to contain herself. “I saw her change!”

Tyavain covered her mouth with her hands, gasping loudly. “I should have known!” The girl exclaimed in a low, self-defamatory tone. “I should’ve _seen_ it. But with the portals and Mertion, I was left tired, so tired that day…” She turned to Firanis, her eyes brilliant with dishonored tears. “I’m so sorry, Firanis, I’m so sorry…”

“You could have _known_?” Firanis hissed, her arms dropping to her sides. “Brilliant, girl, _truly_ brilliant!”

With hands on the sides of her head, the young tiefling nodded. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

“ _Sorry_ won’t cut it!” Firanis was out of control and it reflected on her shouting, much to Tyavain’s distress. “You could have put an end to this before it even started! Now my child is gone and most likely on her way to Luskan!”

It was Nevalle who broke Firanis off, speaking neutrally and evenly. “There’s no point in that now. Tyavain.” At the mention of her name, the girl’s head turned immediately to look at him and Firanis felt a heavy pang of guilt when she saw Tyavain was crying. She had been very harsh to someone who had helped her get down from the Upper Planes and who was helping her still but… it was _Ilwyn_ ’s fate that was at stake.

 “She _is_ gone,” said Tyavain, unblinking. “That much, I know.”

“Can’t you see more?” Firanis asked. “Where is she?”

“I’m.. I’m _sorry_ ,” the girl shrieked the last word in her anxious stammering. “The voices are still weak and I can’t… I can’t…”

That was when Tyavain broke down crying like the seventeen year old girl she was. Firanis had a glimpse of the girl she’d seen in the Upper Planes and how Eleste had treated her and… She bit down the side of her lip. “Tyavain.” She placed her arms on the girl’s shoulders. “It’s okay. We’ll find Ilwyn all the same – it’s my fault you got so tired opening up that portal.”

“We’d best report to Lord Nasher,” Nevalle stated. “Tyavain, you can stay here until you calm down.”

Tyavain nodded between hiccups; Firanis picked up Araga and extended it to the girl. “Take care of Araga, will you? He’s very important to Ilwyn.” Tyavain took the frightened spider into her hands, after which Firanis ordered Karnwyr to stay and guard the room as well.

“Don’t push the girl too hard, Firanis,” Nevalle almost begged after she’d closed the door and they were briskly walking side by side. “She’s been a mess ever since the deva died.”

“deva?” Firanis quirked up an eyebrow. “Do you mean Trias?”

“Yes. She went mad Firanis and believe me I’m not using the term lightly.”

Firanis looked at him sideways. “It’s _my_ daughter that’s at stake.”

“Then calm down.” They stopped at the door to the war room. Upon seeing both of them, the guards standing there parted to give them way. “There is no way you’re helping her if you stay like that.”

“What I’m finding odd about _you_ , Nevalle, is that you do not doubt Tyavain.”

His featured hardened and Firanis felt a shiver of danger running up her spine. “I’ve learned not to,” was Nevalle’s only answer. Firanis needed nothing else.

Unceremoniously, she barged into the room, where her only greetings were surprised exclamations. Firanis did not listen to any of them; instead, she merely declared. “So she really is gone.”

Lord Nasher was looking at her as though he’d seen a ghost. “Why are you here?”

Nevalle wanted her calm. Well, she was going to stay that way… after all, there was no way Lord Nasher was going to listen to her if she started raving like a maniac.

“Why isn’t Lenya?” she coolly asked.

“I saw her a while before. She told me I had to come to the War Room and is staying with your daughter until Elanee returns,” explained Casavir. “Firanis why are you here?”

For the first time since Firanis had met him, Firanis felt an unreasonable amount of anger towards Casavir. But she kept a tight leash on that and remained as calm as she could. “Because she has taken my daughter.”

“Firanis claims Lenya is a Zhentarim,” Nevalle said.

“She’s a changeling – a cross between human and Doppelganger. I saw her changing her appearance while in Luskan and came here immediately afterwards.”

Firanis let her steely gaze fall on Casavir, who was staring back at her with an expression that suggested he’d just made sense of something. “So that is why she brought that beautiful woman today. To help her.”

“A beautiful woman, you say?” Firanis looked at the handsome blond man who had asked the question with a cocked eyebrow. Casavir nodded, suddenly very straight under Rimal’s hard scrutiny.

Firanis picked up the slim thread of thought Rimal was tugging at. “How beautiful?” she asked.

Casavir stammered. “ _Very_ beautiful, Firanis. With skin so white it was like snow, dark brown hair and big, dark eyes. She was the kind of beautiful no one could look away from.”

Recognition dawned on the man’s face, much like it did on Firanis’s after they both exchanged a look. “Aniel,” he declared.

Casavir had spent years with the flawlessness of the devas and other celestials in front of him so Firanis knew he was not overly exaggerating. Ever Firanis herself had been struck speechless by Aniel’s looks. “It has to be,” Firanis whispered. For his reaction to have been so quick, this man… “Just as you have to be Rimal.”

“I see my reputation precedes me.” Rimal threw her a lopsided smile tipped with sarcasm. “Who told you about me? The slut or the mind witch?”

Firanis drew her eyebrows together. “Mind witch?”

“Mind witch, Yarija, whatever.” He took a hand to his chin, adding something like, “Curious no one ever wonders who the slut is,” to himself, under his breath before he raised his voice back up once more. “Anyway, Yarija is a psion. And from your reaction, it appears no one in the Zhentarim had wind of that.”

“No,” Firanis brusquely spoke. “But my Lord,” she turned back to Nasher, her tone easing up in humility. “We have to find my daughter. I’m _certain_ Lenya is taking her to Luskan as we speak.”

“Why would she – or Shemal – want anything to do with your daughter?” Nasher had regained his steady composure and it was showing on the way he was speaking.

“Because I’ve run from him and he seeks to hurt me,” Firanis said. Granted, it wasn’t the whole truth. Shemal would want Ilwyn to hurt her, yes, but somehow she wagered Bishop would also be thrown into the mix. “I only went to Luskan because you needed me to in order to be sure there wouldn’t be an attack and if you must know, my Lord, the only reason I ran in the first place was to warn you of the traitor you’re harboring in your midst. You have no reason to question my loyalty.”

Again, not the whole truth but if she told Nasher she had endangered a city because of her daughter, he probably wouldn’t think any higher of her. And if he somehow detected she was lying through the long, piercing look he gave her, he didn’t say.

“Gather up a search party, then. We will find the girl.”

In all her restlessness, Firanis felt a small glimmer of hope burning in her chest. There was no way Lenya could get to Luskan before they found her. She had an advance on them, true, but she needed at least one day and a half before she reached Luskan.

In the middle of the commotion, Rimal approached her. “There’s no way Aniel came alone.” He was steady, steadier than before. “She would have to be accompanied by some sort of tracker – someone who knew the way like the palm of his hand.”

Again, urgency rose up within her. “Lenya—”

“If Lenya had gone to Luskan often enough, we would have known,” Nevalle said, still standing beside her. “The only reason she wasn’t discovered before is because she never was gone long enough for any trips of the sort.”

Firanis gulped. “Firanis?” Nevalle called her name.

“Yes?”

“I know Bishop’s in Luskan.”

Firanis inclined her head slowly. It was getting harder and harder for her to maintain her forceful serenity. “You think…?”

“From what I remember of him in the meetings we had back at the Keep, he _did_ seem to know Luskan that well.”

“What are you implying?”

“Nothing. Just that he might be the one who brought Lenya and the other woman here.” He shrugged. “By the way, where did the wolf come from?”

Firanis kept her jaw shut tight. “Your point?”

“Don’t you think it’ll be faster to just ask him to find Bishop?” Nevalle asked.

“That will be assuming Bishop is indeed the one who came with them.” Firanis crossed her arms. “I don’t know if we should jump to such conclusions.”

“If we don’t, you’re risking we do not find Ilwyn before they reach Luskan. Are you willing to risk that?”

Firanis got the feeling Nevalle was defying her… along with something else. “Neverwinter has something to gain by finding Bishop, do you not?”

“We’re in hard times, Firanis. What else is better to ease the people than to rob our enemy from a once-traitor?”

“You would execute him.”

“You would rather risk the safety of your child?”

Firanis had no doubts she had loved Bishop once before and what happened in Luskan made her wonder if she didn’t still. She didn’t want him to suffer and she truly didn’t want Bishop to die. Anyone else and she probably would have thought differently but when the alternative was the safety of _Ilwyn_ …  Her choice bore no thinking.

“Let Nasher do things his way, just in case.” Firanis tapped Nevalle’s chest with her index finger. “But you and me are going another way. Just the two of us.”

Nevalle nodded his approval. “I will get the horses.”

Firanis left to fetch up Karnwyr who was still in Ilwyn’s room, curled up in the corner opposite of the bed, where Tyavain was lying on, holding her knees to her chest. She was asleep, Firanis noticed and perhaps it was her unconscious telling her to make up for how hard she’d been on the girl, but before she realized it, she was covering the girl with a blanket. Once Tyavain was tucked in, she beckoned Karnwyr outside.

The wolf trotted after her; outside, she saw Casavir talking to Nevalle, who was instructing the Paladin to stay with the other search party.

Casavir’s eyes bulged out of their sockets when he saw the lanky, gray furred animal, rubbing its snout against the palm of her hand in a plea for attention. He recognized that wolf! By Tyr, the thing had even tried to rip his hand off once!

And the fact that it was here… it bore very bad odds indeed.

“Why are you with _that_ wolf?” he asked, his voice rising higher to mirror his surprise.

Firanis turned to him, lips parted; her hand ran through the thick fur at the back of the wolf’s head; the animal made a thin growl of contentment before it, too, turned to eye Casavir with haughty yellow eyes.

Yes, no doubt now… It was _definitely_ that wolf. No other animal had ever eyed Casavir with such contempt.

The panicked look the Paladin gave Firanis made her look away and reply, “He helped me find my way home.”

“But…” Casavir couldn’t find the right words amidst the confusion in his mind. “Why?” he finally managed.

The small, tight smile Firanis gave him was almost too much for Casavir to bear.

She had met Bishop.

“Please tell me what I’m thinking is wrong,” he pleaded.

Firanis stopped stroking Karnwyr’s fur, her whole arm shivering as she took in a shaky breath. “I can lie, if that’s what you wish.”

The wolf whimpered at the visible wave of distress surrounding Firanis and liked her hand a couple of times before she resumed her petting it.

“No.”

He’d never realized how much a single, short word could be so complicated to articulate.

Firanis’s expression became sullen and heavy; she sighed, “Gods, Casavir…” it was evident that she, too, was pained by the subject but still… She was in pain because _she_ chose it unlike Casavir, who had never really felt like he had much of an option towards his feelings regarding this one matter. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Go find Ilwyn,” Casavir said, voice utterly monochord. “I will do the same.”

She smiled at him then. “Thank you.”

Casavir walked away, unable to understand either Firanis or the pain on his heart. He turned back to look at Firanis… her skin was dirty, her dress torn and her demeanor showed a sheer amount of fatigue. But she still kept on going.

“Karnwyr.” Firanis squatted down in front of the wolf. “Find Bishop.”

Her denial had hurt him but the pain Casavir felt had never been so final up until he heard that sentence.

 

 

Yarija counted herself lucky that she’d never allowed herself to get out of touch with her psionic powers. Knocking the warden had been easy and, with Rekat’s stealthy expertise, getting out of Luskan had been a breeze.

They were now making their way south, through the hidden path to Neverwinter Bishop had taught them. They had planned to skirt the city and continue to Waterdeep, which was still untouched by the Zhentarim.

To help the Zhentarim, Bishop had marked several points in the route to and from Neverwinter. Some of them were just regular references to make sure they kept on the trail while others were strategically placed meeting points. It was in one of the latter group that Yarija and Rekat, tired from their breakneck pace, decided to stop.

Yarija sat down against a tree and stretched both legs in front of her. “Shemal has probably realized we’re gone by now.”

“And that worries you?” inquired Rekat.

“A little.” Yarija grabbed her toes to better feel the elongation of the muscles on her legs. “He’s no fool. He’s going to know I’ve been lying to him all these years.”

Rekat opened the water skin he’d stolen from one of the guards and took a long swallow out of it. “I don’t see how that’s a problem. You’re free from him now.”

Yarija grunted. “ _For_ now, Rekat. Or do you think he’s going to let me go if he wins this war? It…” She licked her hesitant lips. “It makes me wonder if it isn’t in my best interests that I stop him from achieving his goal.”

Rekat regarded her bent form silently, an eyebrow cocked. “Please do not tell me you’re thinking of waltzing into Neverwinter.” 

“I’m…” Yarija’s mouth closed as soon as she heard the rustling of the leaves. She exchanged a quizzical look with Rekat before he sunk into the shadows, ready to strike at the first sign of danger.

But it was no danger – it was Bishop. And he was just as surprised to see Yarija as she was to see him.

“You… are not dead?” was the first question Yarija thought to ask.

“Shemal said he’d thrown you in jail!” exclaimed Bishop. “And why would I be dead?”

“Did you wonder why you were spared the jail?” Rekat was back in sight, standing next to Yarija.

“Yes – he said he would let me go if Aniel and I brought someone from Neverwinter,” Bishop responded.

“And you didn’t think that strange?” Yarija’s eyebrows rose.

“Actually, yes. But then I remembered I’m actually useful, seeing that I still know this place unlike anyone else in the Zhentarim and don’t let my fixation for a half-succubus or my mood hinder my job.”

“Yes, you’re useful unlike us.” Yarija rolled her eyes. “Trust me, Bishop – whoever it is you have been asked to bring, it bears a catch higher than prison.”

“I don’t care about anyone in Neverwinter,” Bishop dryly stated. “If her name is Anna or Judith or Ilwyn – I really don’t care so as long as I bring her to Shemal _does_ get me out of the hook.”

Yarija’s lips twitched. “Ilwyn?”

Bishop looked up, sighing. “The name of the girl Shemal wants.”

Yarija’s jaw dropped and she had to rub her face before she could speak again. “You have no idea, do you?”

“About what?” asked Bishop.

“He does not,” Rekat told Yarija. “And we’re not far from Neverwinter… do you think it will take long?”

“Until he finds out?” Yarija traced her open lips. “No.”

“Find out what?” Bishop was visibly annoyed now and he was speaking through gritted teeth. “What do you know about the girl?”

“Why,” a young, shaky, shy voice was heard. “Why does he have pieces of mom's soul?” Yarija looked past Bishop’s shoulder and there was Ilwyn, her hand tugging at Aniel’s with necessity “Why?”

Felippa – still with her Lenya skin – exhibited a flamboyant aura of superiority and sported a smile of sick satisfaction at that question while the half-succubus was struck speechless for a while as she looked at the brown-eyed child next to her and then at the man the girl was pointing at. After what had to be quite a while, she managed a “Holy crap.”

Now that she had Bishop and Ilwyn standing near each other, Yarija could perfectly understand why she’d been reminded of someone upon meeting the girl and she had no doubt that the only reason Bishop’s face hadn’t instantaneously popped on her mind was because she had not connected him to Firanis.

Now that she had… it was inevitable. If she had had doubts about whether or not Firanis had life about Ilwyn’s father, they were gone. The face, the hair, the eyes, the expression… everything was similar. When Yarija looked at Rekat, his face showed that he was drawing the exact same conclusion she was.

This girl really was Bishop’s. And they couldn’t let her get to Shemal.

“You can't take her, Aniel! She's innocent!” Rekat suddenly screamed. “You know what Shemal will do to her if he gets his hands on her.”

The half-succubus looked at him with a blank, inexpressive face. “No one came when this very same thing was happening to me,” she said. “So tell me then, why should _I_ help someone when no one ever helped _me_?”

“Oh, this is just rich,” Yarija's voice was almost mocking. “Are you really that selfish, Aniel? To let something so horrible happen to someone knowing you could have saved her? Why do you think Shemal wants the kid anyway?”

“Loviatar have mercy...” Felippa cussed from behind the half-succubus. “What is it to you three anyway? You've never really raised your hand against Lord Shemal – why'd you start now?”

“Because this is irrational, Felippa!” Rekat replied, his tone shaky.

“And it's not _her_ fault her mother did not choose Shemal,” Yarija added. “That's the only reason he wants Ilwyn.” She turned her yellow eyes to Aniel, pleading. “She's just like you and me, Aniel. She didn't really choose the path she was forced to walk on.”

“ _Wait_!” Bishop screamed, silencing all of them. “Who exactly is this girl?”

Yarija slapped her forehead; Rekat shook his head; Aniel gasped when she girl latched onto her side, hiding her face on Aniel’s clothes. It was only Felippa who had an answer and even that came as a question. “Are you _that_ daft?”

“I think he is,” Yarija offered. “ _Really_ , Bishop, what part haven’t you got? That this child is Firanis’s or that it’s yours as well?”

“She can’t be mine!” Bishop snapped. “I hadn’t seen Firanis in eight years and when I left her back then, she wasn’t pregnant!”

“Your eyes can easily miss an early pregnancy,” said Yarija.

“And look at the girl!” Rekat yelled. “How can you say she’s not yours when she looks exactly like you?”

“You’re making this all so complicated, Rekat,” Felippa interfered. “If he doesn’t care about the child, the better. Taking her to Shemal will only be easier.”

“You are _not_ taking her to Shemal,” Rekat said, his hand reaching for the hilt of his dagger. “I won’t allow it.”

“And what, you’ll kill me?” Felippa laughed. “Or better yet… will _you_ attack _Aniel_? She is the one with the girl, I’m afraid.”

“Aniel…” Rekat whispered, an abrupt softness filling his voice. “Don’t do this.”

She looked at him, her eyes dark and wide, and quickly shook her head multiple times. “I can’t go with you.”

“Please.”

“You are my uncle!” Aniel half-shrieked, half-wailed.

“I never was and never will be your uncle,” Rekat’s voice hardened and Yarija had a feeling he was doing it so it wouldn’t break. “You were the one who told me people can be anything they want – well, I want not to be your uncle.”

“But you are!”

“Aniel, please…” Rekat held out one hand. “Just come.”

“Wait.” Felippa pointed at Aniel. “You don’t dare to give them the girl.” She then frowned at Rekat. “How can _you_ be her uncle?”

“It does not matter.” Rekat pointedly ignored the changeling. “Aniel, come back.”

Yarija was not sure of what made Aniel change her mind – she still was too surprised to process the fact Rekat was Aniel’s uncle to pay any attention to it – but the half-succubus sobered up and, while Felippa demanded an explanation out of Rekat, she moved.

In all truthfulness, Yarija had to admit… Shemal had been _very_ right when he’d recruited Aniel for her shadowdancing. One moment she was there and then, with the most elegant thrust of one hip, she vanished into the shadows. Unfortunately, seeing Aniel dance had always made Yarija sick to her stomach, as the heat around her increased to an unbearable level. She swallowed the bile down and focused on the changeling, pushing her with the power of her mind.

Out of balance, Felippa fell backwards, where Aniel leaped out of the shadows onto her in an attack the changeling barely dodged. “You are _insane_! The four of you!” She screamed, drawing a small dagger to block Aniel’s recharge.

Rekat moved to take the girl out of the way and Yarija focused again but Felippa was too fast for her to hit to land. Aniel scratched Felippa’s arm and it was enough for Yarija to manage to throw the woman against a tree.

That was possibly when Felippa realized there was no way she would leave this place alive. She chanted swiftly and her body was turned to stone. Yarija tried to dispel it and Aniel to break the barrier between her and her adversary – time they both wasted and Felippa used to find a scroll on her pocket and disappear.

A teleportation scroll. Yarija remembered hearing about it vaguely… how Felippa had been given one in case she’d been discovered and needed to get out of Neverwinter. She was not to ever misuse it, though because she never would be given another.

Yarija walked up to Rekat, who was holding a very tense little girl in his arms. “Ilwyn, it’s me.” She waited for the girl to look up before she continued. “You’re safe now.”

The girl left Rekat and jumped at Yarija, arms tightly wrapped around her neck. Yarija sensed the fear leaving the girl at massive waves and gently rubbed the child’s back in the hopes it would ease.

It didn’t.

Soon, Aniel too was there and she, Rekat and Yarija looked at each other. “So...” Aniel started. “Where to now?”

“We're taking the girl back, of course,” Rekat replied.

“Excuse me the nitpick, but last time I recall, _you_ couldn't be seen in Neverwinter – and as a matter of fact, after kidnapping Ilwyn, Aniel won't be very much welcome either,” Yarija stated. She furrowed a brow with a sideways glance at Bishop, who was still glued to the same spot he’d been standing in for the last twenty minutes. “And I'd bet you've lied all along about why _you_ cannot be spotted there as well.”

Bishop sighed, finally drawing near them. “Does it really matter now?”

“Yes, it does!” Yarija shouted. “One of us needs to go and no one can get in!”

“What about you?” Rekat asked.

Yarija snorted. “We're at war. Imagine a well-known agent of the Zhentarim striding into the City unannounced.”

“We can't go back to Shemal either,” Aniel pointed out, punching Rekat's arm afterwards. “Why did I ever let you talk me into this? At least before _I_ wasn't running from _both_ sides of the party!”

His eyes narrowed. “Isn't your conscience a little bit lighter now?”

Aniel let out a short laugh. “With all the weight it's got, do you think this is what's going to make me feel better about life?” She extended her arm towards Bishop. “I say he goes – the child's his after all!”

“What?” Bishop threw his arms about himself. “You throw that at my face when I just found out about her five minutes ago?”

“I don't care! She's been yours for seven years!”

“I did not know about her!”

“Liar―”

“This isn't going to solve anything,” Rekat spoke louder than either Aniel or Bishop.

“And at this rate, you're going scare Ilwyn even more than she already is!” Yarija hissed.

The half-succubus crossed her arms over her chest, her foot stomping onto the ground. “Yeah, let's allow Bishop to fake that he did not know the girl existed for a little while longer, shall we? Because we have so much time to spare until Shemal comes after us!”

Both Yarija and Rekat turned to Bishop. The ranger rolled his eyes. “Oh, let's see,” Bishop faked a pondering look, his tone dripping with acidic sarcasm. “Maybe because the mother didn't tell me?”

Aniel wrinkled her nose at him as though his supposed lie disgusted her. “And you expect us to believe that?”

“I didn't even know Firanis was _alive_ up until the moment Shemal brought her into Luskan!” The ranger hissed through clenched teeth.

“He's telling the truth,” Yarija's voice was almost meek. “Firanis told me after we discovered Felippa,” the look she threw Bishop was aggressive, nearly annoyed. “That she never told you because she was afraid you'd think she was trying to bind you to her.”

Bishop grew so quiet Yarija doubted he was even breathing. Then he took his hands to the sides of his head and cursed.

There was a flash of light, similar to the one from before, when Felippa had teleported herself out of harm’s way – the only difference was that this particular one bore dire news indeed.

“You seem to forget I keep countenance plans for everything,” Shemal, tall in his pride and demonic in his ire stepped through a newly opened portal. “Do you think I wouldn’t know where _you_ are, Yarija?” he spat. “I can find you and chase you and corner you _wherever_ you are. That you’re so predictable only makes everything easier on me.” His angry attention changed to Aniel. “Same for you. Two boring little people who think they can escape me while all the while they keep playing into my hands.”

Yarija felt Ilwyn’s grip on her tightening and heard the little sob the girl let out. The heat she’d felt before with Aniel was nothing compared to now, with Shemal’s palpable hatred burning down the forest around them.

Then it diminished; Yarija thought she’d heard the girl singing but she wasn’t quite sure. The wounds on her back were re-opening and re-shaping and the pain was nearly making her deaf.

“Did you think you would escape me?” Shemal’s voice, as booming as it was, felt very far away. Everything about her was pain and she was about to burst open with it. She couldn’t resist this, or him or…

The heat vanished and, just a few feet away from them, was Firanis. She looked more like an apparition than a person, with her sickening looks, tangled hair and torn dress but it wasn’t just that and neither it was she the freezing aura which enveloped her that made her seem more dead than alive, more a creature of nightmares than a real person.

It was her voice, haunted and steely, echoing through a snowstorm. “Shemal, you _will_ get away from my daughter.”

Shemal laughed like all the creatures from Hell he impersonated.

“Make me.”

 

 

Across the distance, Casavir saw the trees burning. He had dismissed it at first as a natural fire which he would warn the nearest village about. His goal was to find Ilwyn first and that was not something he was to place second in his list of urgent tasks.

Then, minutes later, he saw the clouds belonging to a snowstorm hovering just right next to it. His eyes widened as he recognized them. He had seen those kind of clouds before and never, _ever_ had the cause been a natural one.

It had been Firanis.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Concerto: Key, Awakening, Decision

**_Concerto_ **

_As a significant number of her pieces changed color, she gasped. “You are cheating!”_

_“I am not,” he replied as smoothly as he could. “I can’t even do so.”_

_“Then why are half of my pieces on your side?”_

_He looked at her, and his eyes were both pained and lost. “Then why is my Queen dying without any of yours in a position to kill her?”_

  **Seventeen**  


_Key_

_Awakening_

_Decision_

 

“I must admit, little sister, when I first saw you, with all that aura of peace around you, I thought you’d be rather dull.” The man called Shemal grinned, his arms wide open. “Instead, you’ve proven to be amazingly deceptive. Fucking one of my minions right under my nose and convince three others to take on your side is…” He breathed in, deeply. “Impressive. But for nothing, nonetheless.”

Ilwyn latched on to Yarija with all the strength her little body could muster, hoping Yarija’s exquisite warmth would dull the screaming of the souls. She looked at her mother, because somehow, she had always made bad things go away, but everything only worsened. The darkness eating away at her mother’s soul was as big as the beautiful, scary man’s, and Ilwyn had the feeling that her mother wasn’t even trying to suppress the hunger, like she’d always been.

The comfort provided by Yarija’s arm as it snaked around Ilwyn’s shoulders was, she felt, not nearly enough to drown out the pain and the screaming and the burning of the souls around her. She could see them all, as clear as water and as though they were her own.

She felt Lady Yarija’s, screaming for release and screeching in pain; she had seen the beautiful woman’s – Aniel was her name – before, but now she knew why she’d been so broken and how that fragility was connected to the man whose soul was a shady as he and who went by the name of Rekat. And then there that man’s, whose face was so like her own… Before she’d met him, Ilwyn had hated him because as surely as the sun rose every day, her mother loved him. Even though he’d left her alone, her mother had always, _always_ left that little corner where she’d placed her feelings for him untouched.

In hindsight, Ilwyn recognized she’d been quite stupid in thinking anything good could come of Lady Lenya’s proposal. But Lady Aniel had been so strangely warm, and her soul had been so broken Ilwyn had thought nothing bad could happen. And she had always wanted to meet her father. Always.

Deep down inside, Ilwyn had constantly hoped she’d find something redeeming in her father. However, his soul was as bitter as lemon and as was keeping pieces of her mother’s soul in its greedy grasp. All the pieces which had been missing all along, all the holes they had drilled into her mother’s soul which constantly caused her pain… Everything which her mother’s soul lacked… it was all there. And it made Ilwyn angry – so angry, - because, if he hadn’t wanted her mother enough to stay with her, then what gave him the right to keep a part of her soul to himself?

A sharp sting perforated her body, and, as she cried, Ilwyn realized her mother’s wintry force had clashed with the Shemal’s fiery one. She felt her mother’s will fighting against Shemal’s… but he was too strong and much more controller than she and soon, Ilwyn felt the hit her mother had taken as though she had been the one standing there.

She forced herself to look at the strife just a few feet across from her and saw her mother trying to hold her ground against the powerful strikes delivered Shemal. That strange flow of power her mother had always possessed was trying to emerge, but the holes on her soul were much too great and the hunger too strong.

Shemal’s force came down again like a whip and, from the top of her lungs, Ilwyn screamed.

Lady Yarija’s hand fell and Ilwyn felt the woman collapsing right next to her and, a little beyond, so did Lady Aniel and her father. Ilwyn’s eyes searched for a clue around her, and she noted sir Nevalle too, had fallen. Her mother could barely stand on her feet and, as Ilwyn turned around, she found Lord Rekat staring right back at her, his lips parted.

“ _No!_ ” her mother’s desperate shout invaded Ilwyn’s ears, and she turned immediately in its direction… but what was there was not her mother, but Shemal. He was smiling down at her in that strange, perfect way - just like he had at her mother the day they’d arrived Neverwinter, and every inch of Ilwyn was a shiver. She held her breath as his smile broadened and felt fearful tears stinging her eyes.

The air dried around her and she was lifted off the floor and away from Shemal, whose smile was replaced with doubt and astonishment. “ _You_?” he asked.

Ilwyn didn’t have to look up to see it was Lord Rekat who was holding her. “Yes, me,” he said.

Shemal opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t get the chance to; instead, he bent forward, breath knocked out of his lungs as a blast of ancient energy hit him square in the back. He straightened up, face lined with frustration; a ball of energy formed in his hand and he once again lurched at Ilwyn’s mother, whose efforts at dodging were fruitless. Her mother was bruised and battered and tired, and it reflected on her lagging movements.

Ilwyn watched as Shemal held her mother by the throat and as she feverishly kicked in the hopes of getting away. Ilwyn watched as Shemal squeezed, harder and harder and her mother, suffocating under his grasp.

Just as Ilwyn was about to look away, an arrow rang past her ear and found a nest in Shemal’s arm. He let go of her mother and turned his attention to where the arrow had come from. He looked back down again at Firanis, a smirk ready. “Do your forgotten knights often come to rescue you?”

Her mother spat out blood. “Screw you.”

“You refused to.” Shemal grabbed her mother by the collar and leaned in so closely his lips brushed hers. “I will let you live today, dear sister, but you will live with the knowledge of _this_ …” Another arrow went by, but it combusted before reaching Shemal and her mother. He then started speaking so low that Ilwyn couldn’t make out what he was saying – but, her mother’s expression grew more and more desperate with each word he uttered, and that was enough for Ilwyn to know he was not delivering any good news.

Then, as quickly as he’d come, Shemal left, leaving her mother cold on the ground. Rekat let go of her and Ilwyn sprinted towards her mother, her heart heavy and preoccupied. Uncle Casavir joined her almost immediately afterwards.

“We need to take your mother to a Temple as soon as possible,” said uncle Casavir while gathering her mother in his arms. Scanning the area, he then added upon noticing sir Nevalle’s still unconscious form, “What happened here?”

“I don’t know,” Ilwyn confessed. “Uncle Casavir, is mom going to be all right?”

Her uncle smiled tightly. “Yes, Ilwyn.” He rose up and headed to his horse, Ilwyn following close by. The Greycloaks who had been accompanying uncle Casavir had already bound Lord Rekat and were proceeding to do the same with her _father_ , Ladies Yarija and Aniel.

Uncle Casavir first lifted her mother’s body onto the horse, then Ilwyn herself before he followed. Ilwyn couldn’t help but notice the slow, disgusted look he threw at her _father_. “Be sure to bind and gag them properly. And take good care of Sir Nevalle.”

With that, he kicked the horse and, took them to Neverwinter. Within a minute, they had already vanished into the horizon.

Rekat looked about himself, not resisting as the Greycloaks bound his hands and feet. He could still escape, true, but as his eyes fell on Aniel, still unconscious from the girl’s powerful mind blast, all the premature plans that could have formed on his head died instantly.

He had felt it too, the girl’s crushing force slamming into his soul and invading his body, but something in him had adapted and he managed to resist it. He didn’t know why Shemal and Firanis had fought the assault on their souls as well, but the other four… they’d been knocked out cold.

And now, he couldn’t leave. Shemal knew who he was and he would hound him like a bloodthirsty dog. Then there was the matter of Aniel, who he still couldn’t let go of. So he decided to stick around and place a little bit of his shaken faith in Firanis and hope she would sort this whole mess between her and Shemal out.

Firanis… Shemal had worn her like a rag and, at the end, he had said something which had made his sister pale even more. There was not one doubt in Rekat’s mind that it had been something about the girl, who was much more powerful than any of them had given her credit for.

Esmerelle had once told him the key to his survival laid where no one would have expected. He had thought Firanis had been it, and maybe he’d been right, but now… He was certain it was not just about his survival, but Aniel’s and Yarija’s and Firanis’ as well. And perhaps the key to all of it had been the girl all along.

 

 

“We underestimated our little sister’s bastard child,” said an exasperated Shemal. In front of him, Ethlinn extended a hand to caress the top of his head, pensively. “How so?” asked she.

“The girl’s words extend to something that is not physical.” He relaxed his back as soon as he felt Vasjra’s nimble hands working on it, and sighed. “Even I could feel it as she spread her distress throughout our souls. Only Firanis, Rekat and I were left standing after the girl screamed – oh, and speaking of Rekat—”

Ethlinn furrowed her brow. “What about him?”

“He is our long lost brother.” Ethlinn gasped at the revelation and Vasjra’s hands hesitated, but after a dissatisfied grunt from Shemal’s part, they resumed their work. “I guess it would be safe to assume is gift lies in staying unnoticed.”

“All this time and we were so immersed in our scheming and in our plotting and in our lying that we never noticed he’d been with us all along.” Ethlinn slumped back on her chair, teeth digging deeply into her lower lip. “You are right. But…” She tilted her head to the side. “Doesn’t that destroy your plans because it makes him Aniel’s uncle?”

“If there’s anything that’s destroyed my plans, it’s Firanis. If half-assed incest worries Aniel and Rekat as much as it did us, I doubt we could use that in our favor,” Shemal sighed, displeased. “And now that I’m on this subject, that whore of an inbred bitch decided to become a turncoat.”

“Firanis must’ve undone a bit of your work on her,” Vasjra, who had silently been easing the pain in Shemal’s back up until now, spoke. “Yarija has always been a strong-minded person and it required heavy enchanting to even barely keep her tied to you, my Lord. The smallest corrosion...”

“And she turned against us,” Ethlinn completed. “Still, I cannot understand how they escaped.”

The room’s heat level rose to an impossible degree; Vasjra felt her throat constrict and her body growing moist with sweat. Soon, Shemal’s skin begun scorching her hands and even so, she didn’t dare to pull them back. “The Elan lied. Yarija _lied_.” His raspy baritone was like uncontrolled fire on a dry forest, consuming and powerful. “I should’ve suspected she was hiding something, but not even under torture did she show even a mere glimpse of her psionic powers.” He gnashed his teeth, hitting the table with an impatiently closed fist. “That little piece of a worthless cunt thinks she can evade me for the rest of her life! She-”

Ethlinn knelt down in front of Shemal before he could continue, her hands cupping his face in nervousness. “We will find her,” she whispered, out of breath. “We will find them all and make them pay. Just please… calm down.”

Vasjra inhaled deeply when she felt the scalding heat under her hands subsiding. Shemal’s deep blue eyes stopped on his sister for a while before he spoke again. “Go get your son,” he ordered.

Ethlinn left instantly, her pace brisk and worried. Then, Shemal turned to Vasjra and in his eyes was a hatred so deep she had to gather all her will not to flinch. “Your hands are burned,” said he.

The Pain nodded. “I welcome the pain, my Lord. It is Loviatar’s will.”

“Yes.” Shemal’s hand rose to caress her cheek. _Grant them pain,_ said Loviatar, _But healing as well, so that the mystery that is my mercy is preserved._ “Which is why I trust you, Vasjra. You do understand what it is like to like with pain.”

Vasjra nodded, for she was unable to speak. Coming from him, both the way he spoke and the way he touched her were humbling.

“I need you to prepare for when Firanis comes here – because she _is_ coming. And when she does, and I kill her, you have to be there to make sure the curse goes into Luskan and not me.”

Still overwhelmed by the trust he was placing in her, Vasjra nodded. 

“Do not doubt that I can do it, Vasjra.”

She shook her head.

“Good. And don’t you dare to betray me.” His threat was harsh but Shemal’s thumb as it traveled across her cheek was gentle, and it caused the Loviatan Cleric’s heart to skip a beat. He was her Goddess’s dogma personified – how could she ever doubt him or betray him? He was everything she worshipped, everything she longed… Vasjra would never abandon someone who was the living, walking, breathing version of all that was sacred to her. “Just be ready when the curse shifts, will you?”

“I will be ready, my Lord.” The half-drow finally spoke. After Shemal’s hand dropped from her face, she pivoted to leave, but only made it to the threshold of the door before she stopped and turned back to Shemal. “Just one question, my Lord.”

“Yes?”

“How do you know Firanis is coming here?”

The heat rose up once more and, for the first time since Shemal had come back from his confrontation with Firanis, he smiled, and Vasjra knew he had been plotting something all along. “Why, I told her I was coming back for the girl.”

 

 

Ilwyn’s content exclamation of the word “mom” was the first thing Firanis heard when she woke up – and the first thing she felt were her daughter’s smooth arms, wrapped around her neck and the kisses the girl was planting on her cheeks. Instinctively, Firanis took a hand to Ilwyn’s head and begun to caress it as all the tension eased off of her. Ilwyn was here. Her daughter was here and she was safe.

Then, unwillingly, she remembered the girl’s scream and how it had been like a direct hit to her very self, a hit Firanis had only endured because a part of her had identified with it. All along, she had thought the part of the curse touching Ilwyn had been something light, soft, something which merely allowed her daughter to see souls. Now, she recognized Ilwyn, just like Firanis herself, had been fighting the curse back, and only something as powerful as fear had made it surface. It had also been fear which had brought her eldritch powers back exactly when she had needed them the most.

And now… The holes her powers had been plugging had been ripped open and formed a vacuum so deep she could feel everything passing through, magic and curse alike. There was no longer anything keeping the curse in check, just as well as there was nothing stopping her magic from flowing out of her body. Those two forces were no longer fighting each other, but running free, each in their direction, both weakening and strengthening her.

Firanis did not know what Ilwyn was capable of, but she did know that Shemal wanted her daughter and that soon, he would be coming for her. And, with the curse unreservedly gnawing at her soul, Firanis was certain she didn’t have much time to stop him.

“Come on, Ilwyn, let your mother breathe.” Elanee gently pried the girl from Firanis’s neck. Ilwyn pouted, but obeyed the druidess, who looked down at Firanis with a smile. “I’m glad you’re awake. We were concerned about you.”

Firanis touched the side of her head, a migraine slowly, but loudly announcing its way. “What happened?”

“You were unconscious when Casavir brought you in. He said Shemal beat you badly.” She had on the bed, pulling Ilwyn onto her lap. “It took almost every cleric in Tyr’s temple to stabilize you. It appears your curse grew stronger over the time you were in Luskan.”

Firanis reached for the glass of water resting on the nightstand beside her while she decided how exactly she could mask this answer. “That is somewhat true. My powers came back and as a result, they no longer are keeping the curse back.” She gulped down the water, its freshness welcome on her dry throat. “What happened next?”

Elanee’s expression changed from relief to one of worry. “You have to rest, Firanis, and I know you won’t if I tell you.”

Firanis set the glass back down, frowning. Her voice wavered. “Please, Elanee. You know I will not rest until I know.”

The wood elf sighed. She whispered something on Ilwyn’s ear and the girl jumped out of her lap and ran out the door. Once she was gone, Elanee stared at Firanis as though she was hoping the aasimar could read her gaze. Fortunately, she did.

“Elanee, you can stop avoiding it.” Firanis propped herself up on her elbows. “The only reason Nevalle went with me in the first place was because I was certain Bishop had played a part in Ilwyn’s kidnapping.”

Elanee shrugged. “Then you know. The greycloaks brought him and three others back. Nasher and the Nine are holding a meeting regarding the fate of the new prisoners right now.”

Firanis’s mind raced. “Do you know what they intend to do with them?”

The druidess shook her head. “No. Well… it appears the Shadow Thieves want one of them, and a couple of psions the other. The other woman they have no idea what to do with.”

“And Bishop?” asked Firanis.

“Firanis...” Elanee tried to dissuade the aasimar from her question, but after an unwavering look from Firanis’s part, she gave up. “They… they were talking about hanging. I don’t know. I wasn’t there, what I heard came from Casavir and-” Elanee stopped when she realized Firanis’s features had gone completely blank. “Please look at me.”

When Firanis blinked, Elanee got the feeling she was blinking away tears. Afterwards, she smiled, and just seeing it left an acidic taste in the wood elf’s tongue. “Well, I _did_ give him away in exchange for Nevalle’s help,” she breathed. “He was the only bargain chip I had. I should be expecting this.”

“ _Know_ that you’re speaking as though you need to convince yourself of that.” Zhjaeve closed the door behind her before closing the distance between her and Firanis’s bed.

“That’s because I _do_ need convincing.” Firanis broodingly ironed Zhjaeve’s point with the truth.

“Don’t waste what little time you have left in convincing yourself of things you’ll never believe in,” the Gith said softly.

“Little time?” Elanee raised a brow, her eyes alternating between Zhjaeve and Firanis. “What does she mean?”

“The curse is stronger, Elanee. You said it yourself.” Firanis wanted to avoid the subject the best she could, s when Elanee made to speak again, she did so first. “At any rate, I have more important things to worry about than Bishop,” the aasimar retorted.

“ _Know_ that you’ve always had more important things to worry about than him, yet you never stopped worrying.” Zhjaeve crossed her arms over her chest.

“Don’t put ideas into her head!” Elanee’s voice was a mixture of hiss and yelp. “Firanis, you need to rest.” The wood elf pushed Firanis down onto the bed. “More than physically, your spirit is completely drained.”

Firanis, however, did not agree with her. She twisted her body and swung her legs out of the bed, stubbornly. “I’ll rest once I’m dead.”

“Don’t-”

 “Let her go,” Zhjaeve commanded. “ _Know_ thatit is important that she goes. At the very least, she needs closure.”

Elanee let out a very unfeminine grunt. Her lips were pressed together and her nose creased. “Eight years, Firanis.” She pointed at the aasimar with an accusing finger. “ _Eight_ years I’ve spent at your side, watching you silently berating yourself over and over again because of him. I would be a horrible person if I let you make the same mistake again.”

Guilt gripped at Firanis’s heart and, for a moment, she was speechless. Then, she spoke up. “Elanee.” Firanis placed her hands on the druidess’s shoulders, trying to calm her down. “At the very least, I owe Rekat and Yarija that I go. They helped me out of Luskan, after all. And as for Bishop… I can’t just let them hang him.”

“No. You can’t.” Elanee removed Firanis’s hands from her shoulders. Between them, hundreds of unspoken words passed, causing Firanis to remember the talk both of them had had once before. “Just go,” Elanee whispered. Firanis nodded and, after a quick change of clothes, she was out of the room, with a persistent Zhjaeve by her side.

As they made their way to the War Room, Firanis felt rather than saw Zhjaeve pointedly glaring at her – which was saying a lot, considering how calm and guarded the Githzerai usually was, “Is that what you really _just_ want? That Bishop stays alive?”

“No. But what I want matters nothing.”

“It matters a great deal,” Zhjaeve stated, her voice a bit higher than its usual quiet-enough-to-be-heard level. “Aren’t you the one who says we do not have to be told in words what others feel in order to _know_ it?”

“It’s not applicable in this situation,” the aasimar argued. “I can’t gamble this on my ability to read people.”

“ _Know_ that—”

“Know what?” Firanis briskly interrupted. “That yes, I want more than just keep him alive despite Ilwyn’s life being in danger and that I cannot waste my precious time on him? That I should make _him_ my utmost priority when the moment he’s free, he’ll just throw things at my face and claim I did it all to chain him to me again?” Speaking of it made it so much harder to deal with. Firanis felt tears prickling her eyes but she valiantly fought them back and went on, “Do you think he would have stayed back then if I’d asked him? If he truly loved me, then he would have asked to remain here with me. I can’t waste what little credibility I have left on him. Why don’t I get to retain my pride once, Zhjaeve?”

“Because you have none left; not when it comes to him.” At that, Firanis widened her eyes and parted her lips, jerking her head to look the Gith at her side. Zhjaeve softened her gaze somewhat. “You _know_ it’s true. And _know_ that if I’m telling you this it’s because I _know_ you will regret this later. He has your soul, Firanis – don’t you think you hold a little bit of his as well?”

Firanis sighed. “He’ll laugh at me; he’ll call me weak and say I’m trying to tie him down because of a child we have in common.”

“He will not.”

“No one will like it.”  

“ _Know_ that we will much rather ignore Bishop for the rest of our lives than see you as you were in Mertion and Arborea. If you believe in him, then so will we.”

Firanis’s wintry eyes widened dramatically; she then looked down and away, her voice acquiring a meek tone. “I’m afraid,” she finally admitted. “I don’t want him to die, but I’m afraid of what will happen if he does. And I’m afraid of what will happen of he does not.”

“I _know_. But I also _know_ that you’re the _Kalach-cha_ and the _Kalach-cha_ won’t be overcome by something as petty and as insubstantial as fear,” Zhjaeve said. “Just as she won’t be stopped by something as petty as pride.”

Firanis just stared at Zhjaeve mutely, nothing but ragged breaths coming out of her mouth. Then, she smiled, “Thank you,” she said and then added, “Wish me luck?”

“You don’t need any.” Zhjaeve’s gaze was solemn, quiet. “Now go, _Kalach-cha_ , and lift that weight off your soul.”

The Gith turned to leave, and Firanis pivoted so that she was facing the door. Recognizing her, both guards opened a way for her to pass. Before the turned the knob Firanis sighed deeply, thinking on what she needed to say to make her points believable. Rekat and Yarija, she had to get out of prison at all costs. Not only had they helped her get out, they would be invaluable in dealing with Luskan, and if she had Rekat, she would need to have Aniel as well. The worst part would be convincing everyone to keep Bishop alive and for that, Firanis would have to find a reason that was beyond plausible. She would have to find something undeniable.

“We have three Zhentarim and a traitor locked up in our dungeon and absolutely no consensus on what to do with them,” was the first sentence, spoken by Lord Nasher himself, that Firanis heard upon entering the room. “My Lord,” Firanis immediately made herself heard, and all heads turned in her direction. “We need all the help we can get in fighting Shemal and I believe that, should we ask, they would not turn us away.”

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, Firanis?” asked Nasher.

“I’m feeling quite well, my Lord.” She scanned the room quickly, and noted Nevalle’s absence. “Has sir Nevalle not woken yet?”

“No. And it appears, neither have any of the prisoners,” said Katriona. “And since you were the first one to wake up, you might as well be the one telling us what exactly happened.”

“Shemal happened,” as she was speaking, Firanis made her way to an empty chair, on which she sat. “By the time I found my daughter, he was already there and Lenya was missing.”

“Why?” It was Torio who was asking. “Shemal isn’t one to trouble himself with simple kidnapping. Unless…” She tapped her chin in deep thought. “Lenya probably had some sort of teleportation scroll.”

“Not unlikely,” Jenna agreed. “But this amount of speculation is useless until we question the prisoners.”

Sir Edmund, resting his chin on his intertwined hands, cleared his throat. “Let’s not forget where the thief is headed next, shall we?”

“With all due respect,” Firanis talked before anyone else had the chance to.“Axle owes me a favor.” Firanis brought down her bitter brows. “He got to where he is because of _me_ and he will pay up now. Let him know that my brother is not going to him.”

“I thought _Shemal_ was your brother,” said Torio.

“He is – and so is Rekat.”

Torio grimaced. “The guy has worse luck than I thought, then. Not only is he in enemy territory with the Shadow Thieves screaming for his blood, he is completely taken by his _niece_.” At Firanis’s incredulous stare, Torio added, “I thought Bishop had told you, since, you know-” Firanis’s expression changed and Torio decided it was best to bite her tongue. “Well, my point is, Aniel is Shemal’s daughter.”

“But that would make her…” Firanis covered her mouth in shock. Aniel, too, was involved in this mess more deeply than anyone would have thought. And to make matters worse, she was… “Rekat’s niece. And mine.”

“Well, yes,” Torio confirmed.

Firanis realized she would have gone into shock if Nasher hadn’t brought her back to reality so quickly when he asked, “Well, then, can’t we bargain with her?”

“You can try.” Torio’s tone was light and brisk. “But I don’t think it would matter. There is only one person in Toril who truly wants that woman, and that person is locked up in your dungeon.”

“And how is _that_ of use to us?” Nasher’s inquiry was impatient.

“My Lord, they both know many of the Zhentarim’s weaknesses,” Torio answered. “Shemal never thought anyone working for him would either be brave or stupid enough to betray him – and both Rekat and Aniel were amidst his most powerful allies.”

“Their intelligence will be vital in securing Neverwinter’s safety should we get them on our side,” Firanis strongly stated.

Nasher regarded her quizzically. “They have been openly against us for years. Why should we even _consider_ taking that risk?”

Firanis pursed her lips; she knew she had to tread very carefully here and the tension of feeling the eyes of every member of Nasher’s Council and the Nine on her wasn’t all that helpful. “Yarija, my Lord, is incredibly smart—”

“We’ve already struck a deal regarding Yarija Thress,” Nasher interrupted, leaving Firanis baffled. “What kind of deal?” she asked.

Nasher sighed. “Two of the Elan have been here, asking about her – in fact, they want to talk to _you_ , as you have been in contact with Yarija lately.”

“And the Shadow Thieves want Rekat badly,” Sir Edmund busted in almost as soon as Nasher had finished his sentence. “They’ve a score to settle with him.”

“I know,” said Firanis. “Just as I know that he’ll be far more useful if he stays with us rather than if he goes with you.”

“Axle-”

“Like I said, sir Edmund – Axle _owes_ me. If he doesn’t like how I cash in my debts, then I will pay him a visit myself.”

“And Firanis is right, Edmund,” Darmon declared. “They _will_ be useful if we can make sure they’re no longer loyal to the Zhentarim.”

“I also agree – and as for Yarija Thress.” Nasher looked at Firanis straight in the eye. “The Elan we struck a deal with asked for you to visit them as soon as possible.”

Firanis bowed her head. “I will.”

“It’s in Neverwinter’s best interests that you go at once. They’re in the northwest suite and are undoubtedly awaiting you.” The steely manner with which Nasher had pronounced the order was enough for Firanis to know she had to obey. She gave him a tight smile and rose from her sitting position.

“Just one more thing, if I may?” she said.

“Speak up,” Nasher concurred.

“We have to finish building up our defenses fast and strike into the Zhentarim’s very heart before they strike our own.” Firanis made sure she was coming across as certain and determined. She felt some relief when Nasher agreed with her.

“We’ve realized that already, Firanis.”

“Very well.” Firanis made to leave, but before she’d got to the door, Nasher was talking to her again. “And before you go, Firanis… There is someone else whose fate we haven’t discussed.” The aasimar felt her heart cooling down in terror; she knew what question was coming next and she honestly did not want to face it; but she had to, nonetheless.

“What is your final stand regarding Bishop?”

Firanis lingered in the threshold of her door, her hand on the knob. She hesitated, but, without turning back, eventually spoke up. “I do not wish him dead.”

Firanis closed the door before she could hear anyone’s remarks on her answer. She knew this discussion was not over, and she knew everyone in that room was against her. But when she found a solid reason as to why Bishop would be more useful alive than dead, she would make them believe her with everything she’d got.

After all, she owed Bishop that much. By leaving him in Luskan just so she could come look for her daughter, she had not only endangered him, but she’d also lied about her motifs. And not only had he let her go… he’d even sent Karnwyr with her so she would be able to get to Neverwinter quickly.

She owed him and, even though she wanted more, if she could repay him by saving his life from the gallows, she would be happy enough.

But for now, she had to meet the Elan and, quite frankly, Firanis was largely curious as to why they wanted Yarija. Within five minutes, she was in front of the northwest suite, knocking on its door. It opened shortly afterwards, but when Firanis strode into the room, there was no one behind it. The only two people in the room besides her were a man and a woman, waiting by the window.

“Good afternoon,” the aasimar greeted “You have requested my presence?”

“You are Firanis Hlaetlarn, correct?” the woman ran her hard, clear gaze from the top of Firanis’s head to the soles of her feet.

“I am. What is it you wish of me?”

The man bowed down his head and said, “It is of our belief you’ve been in contact with a young woman named Yarija Thress.”

Firanis frowned. “That would be true, yes.”

“I beg your pardon.” The man apologetically raised his hands. “We do not wish to cause you any uneasiness. We are merely concerned about one of our own.”

“What do you mean, one of your—” Firanis bit down her tongue, suddenly noticing the couple in front of her _did_ oddly remind her of Yarija. They were both pale and red-haired and there was the unmistakable aura of something _other_ surrounding them as well. “Are you her parents?”

“Not in the way you perceive it,” the woman spoke. “I am Ekeilma and my companion is Viss. We, just like Yarija, are of the Elan.”

“psions,” Firanis gasped.

“Not necessarily, but most of us do end up as one,” Viss said. “What do you know about us?”

“Not much, aside from the fact you’re naturally born psychics,” Firanis replied.

“Your knowledge is faulty, Firanis. We are not _born_ ; we are _made_.” Viss gestured towards the table behind him. “Do you mind if we take a seat? This will take long.”

“No, not at all.” Firanis followed the two Elan and sat across the table from them, her back straight. “Please, if you will.”

Ekeilma gave her partner a sideways glance; Viss patted her in the shoulder. “Patience, my dear,” he murmured, turning to Firanis afterwards. “Now, back to my explanation - like I was saying, we are made. Adult humans are presented to the Elan Council who, upon careful consideration, chooses those they deem suitable; we then undergo a secret psionic ritual and experience a… rebirth, into a new psychic existence.”

Firanis shifted in her seat. “Is that why Yarija doesn’t remember much? The ritual erased her memories?”

Not exactly; I remember everything from when I was a human and Ekeilma does too. Yarija, however, was a very special case. She was very young when she was presented to us – eleven, I think – but she did qualify as an adult woman, if you understand what I mean.” Viss waited for Firanis to nod before continuing. “We were very apprehensive towards accepting Yarija when Shemal first brought her to us, but after one look at her mind, we _had_ to take her in. Her mind was brilliant, strong, beautiful… we would have been fools had we sent her back. Shemal sought an alliance with us and, by giving us someone who so perfectly fit our standards – both in looks and in mind – he got it.

“As you may already have concluded, something went wrong. Yarija had a very strong mind, like I’ve said, but she was still very young. Her body changed into the one you’ve seen recently and even though most of her memories faded, her fear of Shemal remained intact. There was a link between them she couldn’t deny; one day, she confided in me that she would have to go back to him because she was compelled to.”

Viss ran his tongue through his lips, wetting them. “It was then that the three of us devised a plan. Shemal knew she would eventually go back to him – but he didn’t have to know the ritual had been a success.”

Firanis leaned forward, eyes wide. “And what link do they have?”

“Why, don’t you know?” it was Ekeilma who spoke then, a hint of surprise on her voice. “Shemal is Yarija’s father. She is unaware of the fact, though.”

Firanis felt her jaw drop; her mind begun racing, trying to piece it together. She’d always felt a strange warmth whenever she’d been near Yarija, but there had also been something else which had distracted her from it. The young woman had been brash and jumpy, her attitude nothing short of brazen, but… “Who’s the mother?”

Viss and Ekeilma exchanged a worried glance before she replied, “Ethlinn is.”

“But that makes…”

“Yarija inbred, yes; but it is of little importance to us,” Viss stated. “It was her mind  we cared for and in that, she was flawless.”

“I did notice Yarija is highly intelligent during the brief time I’ve been in contact with her,” Firanis granted. “But to know she’s a part of all this… And that she could have escaped this whole mess if she’d stayed with you…”

Ekeilma shook her head. “There was no way. More than anything, she wanted to stay with us, but…”

“Shemal bound her to him – that’s why she always has gone back to him. But you are his opposite and, by being around her, you began corroding his hold on her.” Viss bowed down to Firanis, whose eyes widened in surprise. “We’re eternally grateful for that – and we’ll be even more so when you end the curse which causes her so much suffering and pain.”

“I thought you had negotiated her freedom already,” said Firanis.

“We traded certain things with Lord Nasher, yes.” Viss inclined his head forward. “But we know she will not be truly free until the curse ends. We also know that you need her just as much as she does you.”

“I do not doubt that,” Firanis sighed. “But how can you be sure I’ll end the curse?”

“It’s nothing out of your reach, to tell the truth.” Viss smiled. “Your daughter is something far more remarkable than the curse ever will be. At the very least, she touches souls in a way the curse never will. She’s a treasure.”

Firanis felt a warm sensation spreading through her body, and, almost without realizing it, she was smiling. “I know.”

 

 

Before that sudden loss of consciousness, there were only two things Bishop remembered: Firanis, wrapped in an aura so dark it had chilled Bishop to the very core and the girl – his _daughter_ – Ilwyn screaming so loud his whole body had shut down in response.

So, if he had passed out in the middle of a forest, then why hadn’t he woken up back there as well? Bishop didn’t know why, but something in him felt very disappointed in waking up in a cell.

Something in him was even more disappointed that he’d woken up with the _Paladin_ on the other side of the cell, scrutinizing him like an eagle waiting to descend upon its prey. That the Paladin was here could only mean that Bishop was in a Neverwinter prison – which, considering his history with the city, made him wish that he’d been brought back to Luskan instead.

However, Bishop knew he had no such luck, so he set about to indulging what had to be the Casavir’s reasons to be here. “Ah, Paladin,” Bishop’s voice was infected with scorn, “Came here to gloat, have you?”

“You don’t know how lucky you are, Bishop,” Casavir hissed through clenched teeth.

The ranger snorted. “I’m in a prison – so I’d say _not much_.”

Casavir squinted at him, lips tightly pursed. Beside the Paladin, a shadow moved, causing Bishop to discern a lithe, elegant, petite silhouette on the background. “And I see the druidess has decided to pay me a visit as well. Have you missed me, Elanee?”

Wordlessly, the wood elf stepped forward into the dim light. Her face was as stern as Casavir’s, and her gaze just as murderous. “The moment I miss you will be the moment I bury myself alive. You’re about as welcome as the plague, Bishop.”

“I see you both still haven’t gotten those sticks out of your asses. Predictable.” Bishop fumbled with the cuffs binding his wrists together, but he found no lock. “I had a feeling you’d be back there as well, elf. And you too, tiefling.”

With a grimace stretching his lips, Sand came closer to the cell, followed by Neeshka. “Oh, _please_. Even someone as dense as you should know by now that you’re a prized traitor, Bishop.”

“We both just made sure there’s no way you’re escaping. Not this time.” Neeshka’s voice, albeit still high-pitched, was darker than Bishop would have expected. She had never been big on maturity in the past but the past eight years had certainly changed that.

“You almost sound like an adult now.” In his mockery, Bishop remembered a certain talk about the Upper Planes and how Firanis had been there before coming to Luskan. “I would have thought the celestials would have killed a petty thief such as yourself on sight, but instead, they just rubbed off on you.” He smirked, then, as he remembered _another_ tiny detail about the tiefling. “Did it itch?”

If Neeshka had been mad at him until then, now she was flat-out furious. Her eyebrows were knitted together in an angry frown, and her hands were balled up into closed fists. When she spoke, her voice was low and threatening, even if a bit wistful. “I hope they decide to hang you.”

“I hope they do too.” This time, it was the newly-arrived, slightly panting Khelgar who was speaking. “Ye doona even deserve the air yer breathing – much less what she’s doing for ye.”

“I hate to disappoint you Khelgar, but she left me to Shemal so that she could come back for…” Suddenly, Bishop was at a loss of words. He hadn’t quite got into his head that the girl was Firanis’s – his – their daughter. And he was still very angry that Firanis, of all people, had deliberately withheld information from him and had lied to him so that he would let her go without a fuss. Yet, deep down, it made sense. Firanis was a woman, like all others – why was he surprised she’d deceived him? “Whatever. I don’t really care,” Bishop finally finished his sentence.

Khelgar grunted. “Right.”

“My, sir Bishop won’t even say her name.” Grobnar. Bishop growled his annoyance the instant he heard the gnome’s voice. “No wonder Ilwyn hates him.”

“I guess one more person won’t make a difference,” Ammon Jerro added. His hellbound gaze dissected Bishop like a prey. “I can’t even fathom what Firanis still sees in you. You look like the shit you are.”

“Thank you,” Bishop scathingly commented. “I may look and be shit, but she still prefers me over all of you.” He examined in line of people on the other side of the cell, smiling the superiority he was not feeling. “Let’s see… we’re only missing the Gith.”

“ _Know_ that you are not,” Zhjaeve said in her monotonous voice. “We’ve all the same idea, it seems. Wanted to _know_ how far you’ve fallen, Bishop.”

Bishop did his best puppy-dog-eyes impression – which, considering his practice, wasn’t very good, but it served its deriding purpose. “I’m so moved I’d be touching my heart right now if I could. Aren’t we one big happy family!”

“Honestly, I do not know why she’s even trying to save you from that deserved death sentence,” Elanee angrily spat. It was astounding, really; it was the most angry Bishop had even seen the wood elf, and to know he was the cause… He was proud of himself.

“Trust me, I’m as dumbfounded are you are, druidess,” Bishop said. “In case you don’t remember, she exchanged my safety for someone else’s.”

“A trade I’d make in a second,” Neeshka blithely stated.

“Seriously, Bishop, why would she even choose _you_ over Ilwyn?” Casavir aggressively asked. “No one in their right mind would.”

“Funny – I recall a certain conversation regarding proper states-of-mind and how no one would choose me over you.” Bishop let all his aggravation, all his hatred into both his voice and smirk. “And look at what happened!”

“You ended up in a cell?” Jerro asked.

“I really do hope they hang ye,” Khelgar added. “Ye have no idea of the poison ye are tae her.”

Bishop snorted. “As much as I’m enjoying this little intervention, I’m afraid it’s not working. You might as well leave.”

“True enough,” said Sand. “You are a waste of time, Bishop – and this smell is an assault on my nose. Try not to act more unwisely than usual – you’ll find there’s only one person who’s patient enough for you.”

“Likewise,” Bishop uttered.

“Jackass,” was all Neeshka said. Both Elanee and Casavir left without a word, probably thinking they were too good for him. Khelgar _harrumph_ ed and Grobnar said something unintelligible before he walked out.

Only Zhjaeve and Ammon Jerro remained. “You should stop being so arrogant and thank all your lucky stars for having someone like Firanis on your side,” Jerro commented.

“ _Know_ that she’s all that stands between life and death,” Zhjaeve whispered soon afterwards. “Do not waste the second chance you were given.”

And, with that, both of them were gone. Bishop took in a deep breath and then, he turned to his _other_ crowd. “Enjoyed the show, did you?”

Yarija’s, Rekat’s and Aniel’s shop open straight away, but aside from that, all of their reactions were different. Rekat, who kept the quietest, just shook his head; Aniel begun to cackle, while Yarija settled for a chuckle.

“Ha-ha.” Bishop spoke as dryly as it was humanely possible. “Cute. Laugh it up, all of you.”

“That was the most comic ganging up on someone I’ve ever seen!” Aniel shrieked. “Even the _gnome_ was mad at you!”

“And that’s so funny why?” Bishop hissed. However, Aniel had no time to reply because, with a loud creak, the door to their cell was flung open.

Without uttering a word, a guard walked into the cell, stopping in front of Bishop, whose hands and feet he proceeded to handcuff. “Your presence is required,” he said as he unlocked the chains which bound the ranger to the wall. “Get up.”

Bishop was going to protest, annoyed and in need of a invigorating exchange of insults as he was, but Yarija, still laughing, seemed to anticipate his behavior. “Don’t cause trouble, Bishop.”

“Or?” he asked with a sneer.

“For Mask’s sake, just _go_ , will you?” Rekat pleaded. “As if you don’t know who’s about the only person who would summon you.”

Bishop eyed Rekat icily, knowing fully well who the thief was talking about and Bishop reckoned him and that person were in need of a private chat. So, when the guard jerked at his chain, he got up and followed him to a small, dim room.

Firanis was there, just like Bishop had expected, looking cleaner and better dressed than the last time he’d seen her. Her copper hair, held at the nape of her neck with a green ribbon, looked soft and smooth, and the robes she wore fell loosely and unflatteringly around her in a sea of blue silk.

The guard chained him to the wall, far enough for Bishop to be unable to touch Firanis but close enough for him to sit in front of her. Then, with the heavy clank of the door, he was gone, leaving both of them alone.

Finally, Bishop looked at her face and, coolly and serenely, Firanis returned the favor. All the time he’d been locked up, Bishop had wanted to scream at her – a lot – and hurt her for throwing him in jail. He still wanted to but somehow, when he was looking at her, that will had subsided a little.

“Bishop—” she started.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Bishop interrupted her. It had come unbidden, that question but it was the first one he wanted answered – and Firanis knew exactly what he meant.

“You said you didn’t want to be tied down; where does a child fit into that plan?”

“So what, you were afraid I’d kill her?”

“No.” Firanis looked away. “I was afraid you’d take it wrongly and claim I was just trying to put a leash on you.”

“And haven’t you?”

“No.” Firanis’s tone was so straight, so final, Bishop couldn’t find a way to press her on the subject. So, he chose another one. “The girl was why you wanted to return so quickly; you were afraid Shemal would go for her.”

“Lenya knew about us and I knew Shemal was hotheaded. I thought he would be too busy punishing you to come after Ilwyn and so, were I to be quick enough, I would have had time to protect her. I knew Shemal would use you to hurt me but it would have been bearable when compared to what the loss of Ilwyn would have been like.” She breathed in deeply, shaking her head. “He knew exactly which one I would choose and played it to his benefit.”

Bishop laughed dryly. “You chose her over me.”

“What did you expect? She was there for me when you weren’t!” Firanis drastically threw her arms about herself, her voice rising slightly. “I care for you, Bishop, I really do but you are not the most important person in my life; Ilwyn is!”

“Heh.” Bishop smiled bitterly. “You never planned on staying; we really were on stolen time.”

Firanis touched the left side of his face with one hand, her smile as sweet as his was sour. “The first time around, it was you who didn’t plan on staying. If that’s your logic, then we have always been together on stolen time because there never would have been a future held in store for us. One of us would always end up leaving sooner or later.”

Bishop moved his cheek from under Firanis’s touch and she recoiled her hand in disappointment. “Forget it, Bishop. I was foolish to even have pondered you’d understand.”

“Understand _what_ , exactly? No, really, _do_ enlighten me, Firanis because I do not see how I have to understand that you’d so readily leave me to die for your own goals!”

“It was _my daughter_!” Firanis retorted angrily. “Why would I choose you over her?”

“Funnily enough, you seemed to have no problem with choosing me in Luskan.”

Firanis grimaced at his comeback. “What are you implying? That I forced you into it?”

“Well, it certainly is not my fault you couldn’t keep your skirts _down_ ,” Bishop furiously spat.

“Oh, I am sorry; I don’t recall you making an effort towards them staying that way!” Firanis’s hiss was mocking, high.

“You were just using me all along! You always have been!”

“Oh _shut up_!” She threw her arms about herself, screeching. “Never, _ever_ did I sleep with you out of anything besides the love I had for you!”

“So now you’re calling it love-?”

Firanis held up a finger, the brusqueness of her gesture killing the words at the tip of Bishop’s tongue. “You have no right to accuse me of anything when it was you who left me at the mercy of an ancient evil and most of all, Bishop, you will not hold it against me that I chose my daughter over you because she, unlike you, has always stayed with me and has given me strength when I had none.”

She raised her voice, a grim determination etched up on it. “So no, Bishop – you will _not_ hold anything against me when even though you left me out of cowardice, I’m _still_ fighting to keep you safe and alive and well and, most importantly, out of Neverwinter’s list of executions!” She got up and called the guards. Under her watch, the man unchained Bishop from the wall and pulled at his chains to lead him back to the cell, where he was chained once more. Once the man had left, Firanis, with a very low, dark tone, whispered, “Rot in there, for all I care!”

Between Bishop and his cellmates rose an uncomfortable quietness. He felt and faced the stares of Yarija and Rekat, but it was only when he turned to Aniel that the silence broke.

“Bishop,” Aniel spoke up. “I have no idea as to what you’ve done here… but you’ve definitely screwed up.”

“I have not,” Bishop stubbornly contradicted.

“Oh no?” This time it was Yarija who talked, her voice’s pitch higher in a mixture of disbelief and despair. “From what I’ve seen, it appears the only person in all of Faerûn who truly cares about you is Firanis and even her you’ve managed to piss off.”

 

 

Nevalle had woken up earlier that day in Castle Never’s infirmary, his head a mess of jumbled thoughts and migraines. Against his will, the priests had kept him in bed until now and, since he’d been immobilized, he decide to prepare his report. Now that he’d been released, he was on his way to deliver it, but as he passed through Tyavain’s room door, his heart began beating faster; he strode past the ajar doorway and when he saw nothing but blood instead of a sleeping Tyavain, his heart leapt.

Thoughts of the report vanished from his head and were replaced by a horrible sense of worry and responsibility. Where was she? The girl had been asleep when he’d left, so she simply could have woken up and walked out… but it didn’t explain the blood splattered on her bed and floor. Could she have been taken? Could this blood be… someone else’s?

He pivoted and began following the trail of blood; it led him to the main room, the first floor of the Castle, up, up and always up until he found himself in the snail stairs which ended in a tower.

And near the end, trying to climb up the last step with great effort, was Tyavain.

She didn’t hear him panting a few steps down from her; she didn’t see his eyes bulge out at the sight of the long, ebony blood-soaked wings lying a few steps down the stairs. She didn’t see him because she could see nothing and she didn’t hear him because all she heard were whispers, talks and screams, crushed and crumbled together inside her mind.

Her hands slid on a step and she fell forward, stranded. Instinctively, Nevalle ran up to catch her before she fell with her face straight onto the stone steps, but her weak arms managed to hold her in time. Then, Tyavain finally turned her head, aghast. She seemed to have aged a few years in those last days somehow, with her weary look, overly pale skin and heavy stare with shadows looming under them. Nevalle shuddered when that haunted gaze met his and lingered.

Nevalle shifted on his position, kept telling himself she was _just a girl_ and he’d better calm himself down because she would not harm him. But who could be sure that the taints would not take her over now? Who could say for certain that she wasn’t going to strike at him right there and now and incapacitate him just for the _pleasure_ of it? Just to release another sadistic laughter, to contempt as his life was washed away like the deva’s had been? Who could?

 “Go away!” she was aiming for a shout, but got only a murmur, containing a hint of a threat and a carefully placed warning. Nevalle wanted to comply with her request… but his body didn’t answer what his senses were begging him to do, and he remained there, a couple of steps away from her shivering figure.

“How do you feel?” The Knight tried not to gag in his own words, which now seemed to be of a very bad choice; her thin lips curved up in a melancholy-filled smile, and she turned her face away from him again and re-started trying to climb that stubborn step. After watching her fail several times, Nevalle called her name and she gave up, a hurtful expression sewed on her already sad face.

Nevalle’s strong frame was blurred, unfocused, all the tiny particles which formed it dancing in front of her tired eyes, as if she was looking through a stained glass window whose pieces were being broken apart and glued together constantly.

His lips moved in the same way they’d before… he was repeating whatever he’d asked her.

She seemed to struggle to find an answer, but in the end, it was only a simple “My back hurts” she hoarsely replied with, her wings flickering behind her. Tyavain breathed in and out several times, watching the Knight frown as though he expected something else… a more complicated answer.

It was the only thing wrong with her, was it not? Only her back hurt – her back and nothing else, right?

 _Right?_ She asked herself.

 _Stupid, stupid little girl…_ a part of her replied, _You know he fears you; you know he hates you… Look into his eyes and see how much he wants you to fall down the stairs and die…_

 _Oh little thing,_ don’t _. Your problem is not him, but the one who died because of you… This one was the hand which drove the blade home! Kill him now and avenge the other one! Only then you’ll be at peace, only then…_ the other pointed out. Tyavain could only shake her head, the constant sounds inside her head enticing a migraine that threatened to blow her head off.

She felt a warm, comforting touch on one of her hands and the voices were instantly hushed… and the sudden empty head hurt almost as much as the confused one, like it had when Sand and Lady Eleste had summoned her spirit eight years ago… when they’d summoned…

“… _Tyavain_.”

Yes, Tyavain. When they’d summoned Tyavain and Tyavain only, like she was her own person, free of voices and taints. When you’re used to making efforts to _think_ , it’s strange to suddenly find yourself clear-minded and _lucid_ and alone with only the echoes of your own inner voice… it’d been like inhaling air which was too clear for a nose used to pollution – an air that she’d undoubtedly grow used to in time, but… she hadn’t had time and once she’d been back, _everything_ had been worse because then she finally knew what _purity_ was like… Now it was pretty much the same, but with fear of the already known outcome creeping at the corners and that now it was Sir Nevalle calling her… calling Tyavain. 

And upon knowing that, why… why didn’t she mind the price?

She looked down. He had both of his hands around her fingers, gently squeezing them as he called out for…

“Lady Tyavain?”

She heard him gasp when she said. “I’m just… Tyavain.”

“What?”

“Not _Lady_ Tyavain, Sir Nevalle. Tyavain is enough.”

Sir Nevalle gave her the most perfect, understanding smile she’d ever seen. “Okay then. _Tyavain_ , will you tell me what’s wrong?”

Both taints slammed back into her mind, and Tyavain gasped heavily before she could distinguish her own voice from them. “They’ve come back,” the girl half-mewled, half-cried. “They used to take longer, but they’re already back!”

Nevalle felt his clothes adhering to his skin as more and more blood gushed out of the girl’s back. “You’re wounded, Tyavain. We need to stop the bleeding.”

A sob racked the Tyavain’s body. “Even _that_ is different! My wings usually take days to fall – not _minutes_!” She buried her head in his chest, crying desperately. Soon after, she was hitting him with a closed fist, screaming, “Take me up! Take me up!”

“Tyavain, we have to go to a cl-”

“ _Take me up!_ ” She hit him over and over again; eventually, Nevalle picked her up and begun climbing up the remaining stairs until they reached the top of the tower, where Tyavain calmed down. She wrestled free from his grasp and staggered her way to the limiting pillars of the balcony, which she used to support herself.

Nevalle saw her gaping, bleeding back, her hair licking around her figure like languid flames, the wind lifting her dress up, gently revealing her lower legs and most of her thighs; her arms were placed about her and fingers stiffly spread in a way children often used when mimicking birds ready to take off the ground.

She stretched with surprising balance to stand on her toes and her arms flowed up; she waited before bringing them down again and Nevalle heard her inhale as if she’d just been disappointed with the bland outcome of her gesture.

Everything was so silent after then that not even the wind wheezing against their clothes made a sound. He was afraid to approach her, to disturb the muteness of the world, to scare her or to cause her to start blabbering things that made no sense to anyone.

To Nevalle’s surprise, it was her who made the quietude shatter. “It’s just… I know _everything_ but myself. I know the earth, the wind, the water and the fire. I know people – all of them. I know _you_ , sir Nevalle, better than you know yourself, so why, _why_ can’t I know myself?

“Sir Nevalle, am I mad?”

He choked on his breath. He couldn’t see her face from where he was standing, but from her hoarse, yet strong voice, Sir Nevalle knew she wasn’t asking this for reassurance; she was asking him this because she truly did not know the answer. And neither did he.

He told her exactly that, and it was the truth. He had seen the girl raving like a lunatic, but he had also seen her in moments of lucidity and during those, she had been normal. Remarkably informed, but still, normal. “Now, please, Tyavain, let me take you to the infirmary.”

The girl didn’t move, didn’t speak. So Nevalle took it upon himself and pulled Tyavain back from the balcony. She didn’t resist and, while he led her down the tower, she didn’t resist. Not even when they had to snake around her fallen wings.

 

 

In the limited space her bindings allowed her, Yarija moved. She had been trying to break the locks with her mind ever since she’d been awake, but so far, her efforts had been a waste of time. The lock had a shield against magic so powerful not even she, with all her training, could break it.

They had known what she was, Yarija rationalized. These wards were not ordinary – they had been specifically placed to keep her from running. But nonetheless, Yarija kept trying to break them, and the more she did, the worst the ratting of the chains was. Sadly, Yarija had to recognize that haunting noise it was something now so familiar to her she did not mind it anymore.

“Yarija Thress.” Rimal’s voice reverberated throughout the nearly empty prison. “Still locked up, I see.”

And just like that, she knew the reason she was still locked up. “So this is why they know about me,” said Yarija. “You ratted me out.”

Rimal smirked hatefully. “It was Nasher or Shemal and, from what I recall, it was you who took away my choice in the matter.”

“You could have kept that big mouth of your shut,” Yarija hissed through clenched teeth.

“As much as I loathe to admit it,” Rimal sighed. “The pleasure of informing Nasher of what you are was not mine. It was your own people who did it.” He looked up at the ceiling, nonchalant. “I just confirmed it.” He looked to his right and somehow, his scorn intensified. “Hello, Aniel.”

From the corner of her eye, Yarija noticed Aniel quivering. But instead of replying Rimal, she turned to Yarija. “You sent him here?”

Yarija groaned. “You told me to take care of him – that’s what I did.” She eyed Rimal with a hatred matching his own. “In case you haven’t noticed, she doesn’t want you. Get over it.”

“Oh, I’m not here for her, anyway.” Rimal’s grimace was vengefully twisted. “As much as I loathe to admit, you’re the one I have business with.” He waved his hand and forward came a moon elf and a tiefling. The elf – Yarija recognized his voice as one of the ones which had been there earlier to ridicule Bishop – chanted, and gone was the magic holding her chains.

“Why are you taking her?” Rekat asked. The tiefling went around Yarija’s back and, after a set of noises which denounced how complicated the lock was, the cuffs clicked open. Yarija tried to soothe her aching wrists, but it was to no avail.

“She’s got friends in high places,” the tiefling answered. “Not unlike you.”

Rekat’s forehead winkled. “What do you mean?”

“I believe there’s only one of you for whom we’ll not be coming back.” The tiefling, in an apparently very sadistic moment, took the opportunity to kick Bishop in the shins. Yarija could see him biting his tongue to avoid what had to be a very unmanly scream.

“Bitch.” He gritted his teeth.

The moon elf smiled. “Well, I’m glad one of us didn’t think doing that was demeaning at all.”

“And I’m glad it was me.” The tiefling’s expression was deadpan, but her tail lashed back and forth, giving away her masked anger.

Yarija got up and welcomed the fact she was now able to properly stretch her limbs. Her sensation of freedom was short-lived, however, for as soon as she stepped out of the cell, Rimal violently seized one of her arms and jerked her in his direction. “You are coming with me,” he whispered, but before they left, he turned to Aniel one more time, shouting. “And I’ll be coming for you afterwards, Aniel!”

Yarija could swear Aniel was shaking her head when Rimal started walking away, dragging her with him. She let him mishandle her for a while, but to see Rimal consumed by something so below him… It made Yarija remember certain things she did not want to.

She remembered the day she told Ekeilma and Viss she had to go back to Shemal and the plan they’d devised for it to happen. There had been a major crisis amidst the Elan people during those times, as young psions had disappeared to be sold as exotic slaves. She remembered how they had talked to Rimal’s Order and how, as a test, he had been assigned to protecting her.

She also remembered how the Order had reacted when she told them she had to go to Shemal, who they believed to be responsible for the slave trade in Yartar. Yarija was to be part of a shipment and it was Rimal’s job to catch Shemal’s people red-handed and find out the source of the so-called merchandise. What Rimal didn’t know was that Yarija was supposed to reveal his position to Shemal and use her psionic abilities to keep him from dying.

Rimal was beaten badly that day, but Yarija kept her side of the bargain. She placed a barrier around Rimal when he lost consciousness so that no heartbeat was felt and so, Rimal was presumed dead. Shortly after, Rimal was rescued and Yarija had successfully gone back into the Zhentarim.

Whenever she’d seen Rimal after that night, she had acted cold and detached. As a result, Rimal made sure to foil all of Shemal’s plans he was made aware of – and, as payback for that, Shemal had sent Aniel to deal with Rimal.

“Hate does not become you, Rimal,” Yarija whispered, her voice strange even to herself.

“What do you know about it?” he shot back at her, vacantly.

Yarija ignored him, “Neither does envy.”

His nostrils flared; his breath came out in a furious hiss.

“And much less does anger.”

A turn, an open door and they were in an empty, broad room. Rimal stopped to brusquely spin her round to face him, his strong hands clasping her shoulders. Two deep lines were etched between his brows and his deep baritone voice was hoarse, “Do not speak of things you know nothing about, little witch.”

Slowly, Yarija blinked. She looked at her left shoulder, then at the right; the bruising force with which his hands clasped them was beginning to bother her. But it was nothing like the scorn in his words; how could he dismiss her so lightly?

Yarija met Rimal’s stare with her own. Something within her writhed at what she saw there, in his sky blue eyes. There was so much darkness in them, fed by uncertainty and revenge; a darkness which was eating him from inside out, leaving a soul which had only been of the purest light a rotten, barren place.

“To see someone like you falling,” she heard herself saying in a broken, meek voice. “It does this world much disservice, Paladin.”

His eyes widened and there, peeking shyly, was still the trace of all the pureness which had once been all of him. It didn’t last, however, for as quickly as it’d come, it was gone and the fine lines of his face hardened. “I’m not a Paladin anymore. You know that, don’t you, little witch?” he was so close to her face now she felt the moistness of his cool breath on her lips. “You were among the ones who plotted it, weren’t you? Planning to make me fall for _her_ all along, knowing she wouldn’t ever be _mine_!”

“I did not plan it.” It was the unadulterated, unfettered truth. It had been Shemal’s decision alone to send Aniel to play with the Paladin.

He laughed. He just _laughed_ in her face while force on her shoulders tightened. In all the mockery that twisted his perfect, beautiful face, she saw a familiar shadow of pure evil and felt her own darkness resonating with his; the smile he gave her was so bitter, it didn’t match his angelic features.

Her chest leapt as images of Shemal came uninvited into her mind, when he, too, had held her by the shoulders and placed his face close to hers, _smelling_ her fear and disgust; _thriving_ in them.

She’d lashed out and tried to bite him. But it’d never worked because she’d been chained to the wall. Oh, she’d wanted to turn the tables for so long, wanted him cornered and suffering under her like she had under him.

Her mind reeled and she screamed. Blinking, she became aware that her saliva had a strange metallic taste about it. When her sight cleared from the crimson hazy fog the memories had invoked, it wasn’t Shemal who was under her, but Rimal, with his full mouth parted, swollen, _redder_. It didn’t take her long to note he was bleeding from his lower lip. His eyes were unexpectedly big on his face and mostly black instead of blue, for the pupils had dilated so much, they drowned the irises almost completely.

She looked down at her own body and, much to her dismay, saw she was straddling his waist, pinning him into the ground, his arms secured by her legs; her right elbow was against his throat and her left hand was… clawing at him! The right side of his neck was marred by five very angry, very red lines from which blood languidly spurted. She could even feel the skin she’d tore under her fingernails!

For moments, neither of them breathed; just stared in horror at each other.

With a look Yarija knew was very wide-eyed, very open-mouthed, she took her hands and straightened her back, slowly preparing to lift herself off him. However, as luck would have it, she fell slightly backwards, her bottom sliding lower and…

_On Beshaba’s foul fortune…_

_Is this…?_

Quite stupidly, her hands checked.

It was.

Yarija felt her heart pumping harder as she scrambled off him as fast as she could and crawled to sit with her back against the nearby wall, breaths ragged and anxious. Hesitantly, she looked at Rimal once again. He had risen to a sitting position and, from the way his chest expanded, his lungs weren’t behaving any better than hers. _Well, at least he has the decency of looking surprised_ , was her only dismal thought.

“Yarija?” A voice she recognized only too well called beside and above her. Her lips parted shakily as she tilted her head upwards. She knew she looked like she’d taken the fright of her life but Viss, upon inspecting her for a single moment, must’ve seen something else on her face because he turned from her and, in a couple of steps, he dragged the Paladin up by the collar.

Rarely had she seen Viss’s face so loaded with emotion as when he’d asked, “What exactly have you done to her, Paladin?” Yarija felt Viss bolstering his strength with the help of his psychic powers to effectively slam Rimal against the wall. “Or have your perhaps forgotten the duties you swore to uphold ages ago?”

“She was the one who betrayed me!” Rimal defended himself. “She sold me out!”

Yarija placed a hand on Viss’s arm. “Leave him be, Viss,” she politely pleaded.

“Does he speak the truth?”asked Viss.

“Yes. I sabotaged him in order to make Shemal believe me.”

Unceremoniously, Viss dropped the paladin like a hot potato. Rimal was back up within seconds, seething. “So you do admit to it,” he said.

Yarija readied her answer, but Ekeilma beat her to it. “It was a calculated risk. If Yarija had indeed betrayed you, you would no longer be alive.”

“Your Order also used that event to determine whether or not you were ready to become a Paladin,” Viss added, his voice no longer altered by resentment. “They were made aware of Yarija’s apparent change of affiliation and thought to judge your character by how you reacted to her leaving you. They wanted to know if you could place your duties above all else – especially vengeance.”

Rimal’s jaw dropped and he let out an indignant gasp. “So _everyone_ played me for a fool that day.”

“You _did_ get knighted,” Yarija simply stated.

The paladin shot her a look of hungry disgust. “Aren’t you a bright ray of sunshine.” He turned to the other two Elan. “You have her. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other tasks I must attend to.”

Yarija only had time to touch her forehead and sigh before Rimal left the room. Once he was gone, she smiled at both Ekeilma and Viss. “Thank you.”

Viss tousled her hair. “At least you found out what Shemal was after.”

“Yes.” Yarija paused thoughtfully. “I have.”

“Good.” Ekeilma placed a motherly hand on her shoulder. “Because now, we have to make plans. He has to be taken out.”

Yarija nodded her agreement. “It’s my only hope.”

 

 

As per Elanee’s rather forceful request, Firanis was now on her way to visiting the infirmary and make sure the stressful day hadn’t made an impact on her health. Deep down, Firanis was sure no cleric was capable of helping her now, but Elanee had been so stubbornly worried Firanis hadn’t had the heart or the will to refuse her.

So here she was, in the infirmary – and surprise of surprises, so was Tyavain, wearing what had to be one of the most happy expressions Firanis had ever seen on the girl. Tyavain was smiling – _really smiling_ – as, from her bed, she hugged a tiny, graceful woman. Firanis bit down her lower lip, unsure of what to do, unable to decide if she should interrupt the scene unfolding in front of her, where Tyavain seemed to find some degree of peace as the woman brushed her hair with delicate, thin fingers.

“Hush, Tyavain,” Firanis heard the woman whisper, shushing whatever the tiefling was whispering by burying the girl’s head on her chest. “You did the right thing.”

Tyavain didn’t move for a while and the woman’s gaze never lifted from the girl’s head. A caring, nurturing aura seemed to have been created around them… and it was such a strong one that Firanis wondered who exactly this woman could be.

Tyavain withdrew her head and nodded her head in Firanis’s direction, making the aasimar suddenly conscious that she’d been watching something that had not been meant for her eyes; a wave of uneasiness spread on her body, only to be soothed when  the elven woman smiled at her, bowing her head as she greeted Firanis, “Good afternoon, Firanis Hlaetlarn. I can see my child _did_ find you after all.”

The aasimar blinked, trying to remember from where she knew this woman’s familiar features… And she remembered Crossroad Keep’s last siege against the King of Shadows; this woman had stayed for reasons which had been her own… at the time Firanis could hardly argue… they needed all help they could get and her arrows had proved to be an invaluable help. But that had not been the first place the aasimar knew this woman from…

She’d said _her child_ had found her, had she not?

After a while, Firanis smiled to bow her head at the woman. “Yes, she did; and for that, I will always be thankful to Tyavain… Amaya, is it not?” Of course she’d seen this elf before; the resemblance was so stark, Firanis thought herself stupid to have missed it. Amaya was smaller, but her face had exactly the same chiseled, angular structure Tyavain’s did – the only two things that changed between the two was the hair and the eyes; Amaya’s hair fell around her face like an ivory black straight silk curtain – and Tyavain’s, while of the same texture, had a vibrant red color. As for the eyes… despite their obvious ancestry, neither of them had angular elven eyes – Amaya’s were wide and big almonds, deep green in color and Tyavain’s had that exquisite, twisted shape with the irises colored an icy blue.

And those two things, Firanis guessed, must’ve come from the massive man who was talking towards them in brisk, large steps, tail moving back and forth behind him. Amaya turned before he was even close, cringing as though he was making unbelievingly loud sounds as he approached. “Valen, my love, can you please not stomp through these hallways? They make echoes louder than most.”

Firanis blinked; she’d heard nothing out of the ordinary; this woman’s hearing was phenomenal, even for someone of her race.

The man – Valen – didn’t seem to hear Amaya’s complaints, because he limited himself to hug Tyavain in an embrace which was hard enough to knock the breath out of the girl’s lungs.

“Dad… Can’t… breathe…” Tyavain stammered. Amaya shook her head, frowning. “Don’t be rude. Say “hi” to Firanis here; after all, she’s the reason Tyavain found us.”

“Then I must thank you.” Valen extended a large hand, which made Firanis feel small and vulnerable when she shook it. “I had no idea you’d be so important to our family when we first met.”

Firanis smiled embarrassingly. “I’m afraid that if there’s anyone to thank here, it’s Tyavain. Without her, I would still be in the Upper Planes.”

“Oh, the Upper Planes.” Amaya rolled her eyes. “Completely overrated, if you ask me. Most devas have sticks so far up their asses they can’t even bend their legs.”

“Mom, Firanis’s grandfather is a deva,” Tyavain coughed.

“So what? She’s _not_.” Amaya looked at Firanis from head to toe. “Even if the heritage is obvious.”

Valen seized the elf by the waist before she could say anything else. “You must excuse my wife. She spent so much time in the Lower Planes she’s forgotten she’s not supposed to assess people quite so much these days.”

“It’s all right,” Firanis said. She then detected the bandages around Tyavain’s torso and shoulders. “What happened to you?”

Tyavain cleverly ignored Firanis’s question “Mother, didn’t you have to go somewhere?”

“Ah, yes!” Amaya excitedly exclaimed. “Come, Valen, there’s old friends here I have to meet!”

Tyavain smiled when her Father planted a kiss on the top of her head, but the smile was gone with her parents. “The taints came back,” the girl informed. “And right now, they’re telling me you’ve not got long.”

Firanis inclined her head before sitting down at the foot of the bed. “That would be true. Which is why you must help me.” Firanis breathed those sentences in ragged hurry. “Because I have to save her.”

Drowsily, Tyavain blinked. It was a question, Firanis noted, a question to which she immediately answered. “Ilwyn. For some foolish reason, I thought she had been spared to some extent, but she’s in touch with the curse as much as I am – and I have to save her.”

She is your anchor; you should have expected it.”

“Expected what?”

“Everyone who has been touched by the curse has a part to play – you just have to find out which one is Ilwyn’s.”

“But I can’t risk her.” Firanis’s words came out in an exasperated breath. “No, Tyavain, there I is only one life I’m putting on the line, and that is my own.”

“Firanis.” Tyavain gently reached for the aasimar’s small hands, squeezing them with her own. “Didn’t you find any worthwhile information while in Luskan?”

Firanis turned her head to the side and, for a moment, she felt lost. “I don’t know how much of it is worth anything. I just know that I have to go back to Luskan for Shemal before he comes back for Ilwyn.”

Tyavain’s blue eyes flashed and for a moment, Firanis had a glimpse of a wisdom so intense and ancient it was terrifying. “There’s already someone who knows what part Ilwyn is supposed to play.” There it was again, that voice which was Tyavain’s and, at the same time, someone else’s. The voice which combined innocence and wisdom, pain and relief, sorrow and happiness. “You brought for people with you and, to end the curse which plagues your soul, you have to save them all.”

Firanis’s lips parted, but it took her a while to be able to utter a single word. “I’m not sure I can save Bishop.”

Upon hearing that, Tyavain’s face changed and back was the girl who had just reencountered her parents. “Oh Firanis…” Tyavain’s murmur was almost pitiful. “If you want to stop Shemal, you simply have to – who else is capable of taking you into Luskan unnoticed?”

Firanis’s felt her breath being knocked out of her lungs by the startling impact Tyavain’s words had had. “So it’s a reason as simple as that.”

Tyavain lifted a shoulder. “Now all you have to do is convince Nasher you need to get to Shemal before Shemal gets to you. You just need to be ready to face the consequences. A war with Luskan is inevitable now, so asking to go to Shemal as soon as possible won’t be much of a problem, but to ask for Bishop’s traitorous behavior to be forgotten just so you can sneak into Luskan by yourself? That guarantees the anger of a lot of people.”

Firanis looked away. “I have to do it.”

“And I was going to ask you if you were certain of this, but I don’t need to. Even without using my magic, I can see you are.”

“Good.”

Tyavain sighed. “Firanis, look at me,” she pleaded.

The aasimar turned; her eyes were beginning to redden and her jaw was set much too firmly. Placing her hands on each side of Firanis’s face, Tyavain _tsked_ , shaking her head. “Foolish woman,” Tyavain said, “trying to fool _me_. How long do you need?”

“I’m fine,” Firanis stubbornly hissed.

Tyavain’s eyes narrowed. “No, you are not. I can _feel_ your distress. And you don’t have to pretend you’re strong enough for all this in front of me; I will always see right through it.” Her hands tightened on the aasimar’s face, emphasizing her point. “Now, how long do you need to get yourself together? Because, trust me, if you go in there like you are now, you’ll lose control and no one will listen to you because they’ll take your arguments as the ravings of a woman who’s in love with a traitor.” The volume of Tyavain’s voice fell drastically. “Just like they did with Aribeth.”

“I know – but there’s still a major problem I have to figure out before I present a plan to infiltrate Luskan and save Bishop’s life.”

Tyavain pulled her shoulders back and straightened herself. When she licked her lips, she did so almost guiltily. “I’m sorry, Firanis.”

“What for?”

“The taints… Neither the Baatezu or the Tanar’ri know how to end the curse.”

 

 

Aside from the little circus around Bishop earlier, Firanis’s brief appearance and the visit of the paladin, there had been no fateful events that day. Neither Bishop or Aniel had said anything noteworthy during the whole day and, to be fair, Rekat didn’t know if the quietness was a blessing or a curse so, to avoid thinking about it, he kept to musing about why Yarija had been granted freedom and how exactly Bishop had acted towards basically everyone in Neverwinter to warrant such hatred.

The thief was growing used to the deafening silence when the loudest stomping broke it and a man – red haired and blue eyed – stopped by their cell and pointed at Rekat. The thief regarded him curiously as the man shifted his colossal weight from left to right foot and said, “I remember you.”

Rekat stilled, one eyebrow arching up. Yes, this man’s features _were_ vaguely familiar, but from where?

A small hand brushed on the man’s massive, muscled arm and he was pushed aside, revealing a small, raven-haired, pale skinned elf.

Oh.

“Ah, Rekat!” Amaya exclaimed. “Still playing clumsy thief?”

A smirk tipped the corners of Rekat’s lips. “Amaya. Still playing bored noblewoman?”

The elf waved a hand in dismissal. “Nah; the plague had me running and it pretty much was start adventuring or die.” After a very theatrical sigh, she kept on talking. “Heard of the Athkatla job you did, though; pretty impressive. _And_ under the nose of the Shadow Thieves, too! The one in Baldur’s Gate would’ve been perfect as well but you decided to reveal yourself to Tyavain.” She shook her head, _tsk_ ing. “Worst move you could have possibly made.”

Baldur’s Gate, Baldur’s Gate… Wasn’t that where he’d met the kid and—

Immediately, his eyes went to the tall, redheaded tiefling; then to Amaya; then to the tiefling’s left hand; then to Amaya’s.

“She is _yours_?” Rekat was almost squeaking, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Yes. She is _mine_. Tyavain’s my daughter.” She looked up at the man beside her and her features softened as she smiled in a way Rekat had never seen in her before. “Our daughter, that is.”

A shudder raked him as Rekat remembered the horrible feelings of that night and the girl’s voice which did not belong to a girl at all but to something ancient and forgotten. True, whatever madness which had governed the child had somehow been put under control – but Rekat knew it was still there; he knew it when the girl who was no longer a girl but a woman had looked at him and that swirling, old knowledge had swum in her eyes; and he’d heard it in her voice when she’d talked to them, right here in this prison, as she asked about the deva.

Constantly in strife with herself, always fighting to maintain her own sanity and with a power deadly enough to crush bones with naught but a whisper - that young woman was dangerous, his brain had screamed.

Breathless, Rekat could only ask, “Mask, Amaya, what have you done this time?”

Her delicate brow furrowed and the elf took her hands to her hips. “Hey, don’t blame _me_. It was very, very cold – and how was I supposed to guess I could get pregnant after dying?”

“The same way you managed to have sex,” Rekat sighed, resigned. “You really haven’t changed, have you?”

The tiefling man gave him a dubious look and Amaya grinned impishly. “Oh, I _have_ changed. I don’t send people after Aarin anymore… my sister would kill me.” She tapped her chin, eyes narrowed. “In fact, I still wonder why you did not want that eye properly healed. Such a nasty scar…”

Almost absently, the thief took a hand to his right side to feel the said mark. It had been quite the ugly thing to behold, back when she’d hired him to sneak into Castle Never and steal some fancy documents from Nasher’s spymaster, “With it to remind me of how I failed, I never made the same mistake again,” he told the elf.

“Mistake? You?” Aniel intervened. It was the first time she’d spoken in hours.

“Rekat got cocky,” Amaya casually waved her hand in dismissal. “Said it was a cakewalk to get past Neverwinter’s spymaster.”

“Never underestimate your adversary,” Rekat sighed. “That’s what I learned.”

“Ever so serious… But at any rate, although I enjoy reminiscing about the past, that’s not why I am here.” Diverting her attention from Rekat, Amaya aggressively pointed at Bishop, “You,” she said, voice strong and direct. “Have royally screwed up this time.”

Even though he’d only had to listen to her for a very brief period of time in the past, Bishop hadn’t missed her.

“Is this cell an inn now?” Bishop snapped back at her. “First the paladin and the druidess and everyone else, then Firanis and now you. What is it with you people? Do you all want to throw insults at me while I rot in here?”

“It’s not an insult. It’s an euphemism,” Amaya said. “Are you _mad_? Because with your almost certified hanging, I’m not sure you’ll get to rot here at all! And I _warned_ you Bishop, how I warned you—”

“Why do you care?” the ranger spat.

The elf’s brows shot up and she’d looked ready to spout another bout of nonsense when Valen took her elbow; she visibly calmed down and, as a result, her voice lowered to a bearable pitch. “Even _Tyavain_ warned you… but you never listened. Now Nasher wants your head and I know for a fact Firanis will have to go through hell to see that it does not happen.

“And now my sister has gone insane over this whole ordeal, claiming there’ll be another Aribeth and Sehanine knows what happens when Radrien gets paranoid over something.” Amaya’s voice was rising dangerously again and she started to pace around the room as though she needed it to know what to say. “To top that off, _Tyavain_ took to Firanis like bears to honey and Sehanine knows what the girl does when she likes someone enough to open up portals! Look at the deva, for instance! She blew up half of the…”

Amaya went on for what seemed like forever. Bishop exchanged puzzled looks with both Yarija and Aniel but Rekat… He was looking at Valen very calmly, almost as though as he had already seen this scene before. “I thought a few more years would have calmed her down but no; your wife is still as over-analytical as she was when I met her.”

Valen exhaled heavily. “Actually, it’s gotten worse. Now she tries to find loopholes in everything – something of Baator stuck to her despite Tyavain cleansing us from our taints.”

“Baator, heh?” Rekat smirked. “I heard they had some mean contracts – how did she get out?”

“Oh, it was actually pretty easy.” Valen smiled broadly, one massive arm grabbing Amaya back to stillness. “The contract she signed was for Amaya Dano’delie. When she became Amaya Shadowbreath, the contract held her no more.” He pulled Amaya close to him and kissed the top of her head.

Rekat, with his eyes widened, nodded to Amaya his admiration. “Well, Amaya, I’m actually surprised. I’d say it was blind luck, but knowing you… You planned ahead.”

Amaya rolled her eyes, “Here I thought you’d joke about my marriage and say it was out of convenience.”

“Oh, no. I know you, Amaya, and I know you wouldn’t marry unless you truly wanted to – you’d spend eternity in Hell rather than marrying someone you didn’t care for.”

“Hum. True.” Amaya smiled lightly. “Which reminds me, it’s getting late and I still plan on being a dutiful wife tonight.”

Valen blushed profusely. “Amaya-”

“And we have to pick up Toque so he can see Tyavain,” Amaya continued. “And stop being so shy, Valen. We have two children – the jig is up.” Amaya waved her hand. “So, ta-ta for now. Try to cheer up that cell, will you?”

As Amaya happily trotted with her tiefling husband behind her, Rekat had no doubts that this particular woman had changed in more ways than one. However – perhaps thanks to their shared past, - he still found Amaya as creepy as a black widow, blatant marital happiness or not.

And, apparently, he was not alone. “Someone that size should not creep me out this much,” Bishop said.

“Let’s just say the news of her fiendish side were not among the most shocking revelations of my life,” Rekat stated. “She was scheming, devilish, opportunist; must have been one hell of a ride for her to change like that.”

“knew her that well, did you?” Aniel’s question was coated with poison and, perhaps, a hint of jealously – jealousy that was completely unfounded.

“Have you ever _looked_ into Amaya’s eyes?” Rekat appeared disbelieved. “From the first time I met her, I knew I should not get too close to her. Yes, she is beautiful, but whenever I looked at those eyes of hers, I saw only a bottomless pit; too sinister for me.” He pointed a finger at the scar on the right side of his face. “Turns out my survival instincts were right too. Once she paid me, I was gone.”

“And the kid isn’t any better either,” Bishop exhaled.

“The kid, so it happens, has come up with an idea that might save your life.”

Their door cell opened and Firanis went in; she didn’t go any further inside the cubicle, though. Rather, she stepped to the side and leaned against the far wall, regarding him with an especially cold gaze, “Does it not affect you, Bishop,” Firanis began, her voice low and taut. “That your life rests on how people regard you?”

“I’m not an ass-kisser,” he moodily retorted.

“No,” Firanis conceded. “You’re a completely conceited bastard.”

_Ouch._

He returned her glare with bleak determination. “What if I am? I’ve never cared what others think of me – what makes you think I’m about to start now?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Rekat slapping himself in the forehead.

“Nothing – I don’t expect you to.” Firanis exasperatedly bit the corner of her lower lip and looked up. “But I might be able to save you from the gallows-”

Bishop didn’t even wait for Firanis to finish her sentence to turn her down. “I’m not interested. I cannot stand being indebted to you.”

For something as scarce as a moment, Firanis’s features softened, but her momentary lapse was corrected instantly. “From where I stand, I’m the one who owes you for letting me out of Luskan. Consider this my way of paying you.” Her eyes flicked between the three of them. “All of you back.”

“What do you want, then?” Bishop snorted. “Us to take you back into Luskan so you can kill Shemal in a surprise attack?”

“Well, yes.” Firanis’s swift tone insinuated she thought it to be the most mundane task.

Rekat cocked his head to the side. “It’s doable, but why do you want to do it?”

“Because I have to end the curse as fast as I can,” Firanis half-lied. “And, so far, it’s the only way I’ve found of saving the three of you.”

“Oh please,” Aniel sighed. “Why do all of you holier-than-thou people think we need saving?”

“Because, Aniel dear, the Shadow Thieves want Rekat’s neck and Neverwinter Bishop’s,” said Firanis.

“And me?” Aniel asked.

The aasimar shrugged. “Looking at you, Nasher can always sell you to a brothel in case he wants his dungeons cleaned up.”

Firanis could see, by the way Aniel’s face twisted, that she’d touched a nerve. “So?” the aasimar asked.

“If you get the deal, I’ll do it,” Rekat was the first to reply. “But you have to make sure the Shadow Thieves will no longer be after me _and_ that you will take care of Shemal.”

“I will.” Firanis’s lips parted in a slight smile. “Thank you, Rekat.”

“If you get me out, I’m in as well,” said Aniel. “My life can’t get worse, after all.”

Firanis nodded. Only Bishop remained and he had that characteristically uncaring mask of his placed over his face. “Bishop?”

He groaned. “You’ll never get them to pardon treason.”

“I will,” a determined Firanis stated. “I just have to.”

He looked at her and their eyes locked. Firanis pressed her lips together and held her ground, resisting the tension that was building up between them. “I do it and there’s no more business between us. Ever.”

Firanis had been more than prepared to hear that. It was typical of Bishop, this kind of reaction, but deep down, she had always hoped he would give her something different. “You will never see me again.”

Bishop kept on holding her gaze for a long time, and Firanis suspected he was trying to make her falter. When she didn’t, he shrugged. “Then perform a miracle and count me in.”

After that, Firanis had no time to waste. She took off, almost running. She had heard that Nasher and his advisors and the Nine were holding a meeting now, where the fate of the three remaining prisoners would be decided. Within minutes she was there and, just like earlier that day, faces turned to her when she unexpectedly showed up.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she excused herself. “I was just discussing loyalty matters with our prisoners. They are willing to help us break into Luskan so as long as we give them freedom.”

“You were right, Nevalle.” Jenna sounded surprised.

“Like I was saying, they are not on Shemal’s side. When Firanis and I caught up with them, they had Ilwyn and refused to give her over,” Nevalle pointed out. “I stand witness to that. Bishop, however, is a whole different matter. It was been proven that his loyalty cannot be taken for granted at any given moment. I was there when he betrayed us to the King of Shadows. So was Firanis.”

Firanis held her breath. “Nevalle…”

“You were the one who said we could have him if I helped you track Ilwyn down,” Nevalle stated.

“I said I’d take you to him,” Firanis conceded. “But I never said I wouldn’t fight against his sentence.” Firanis smiled, but, unlike just a week ago, her smile was cold, calculated and devoid of any pleasure. “His betrayal eight years ago didn’t compromise your city; it’s still whole, intact and as strong as ever. We saved it anyway.”

“That’s your point?” Nasher asked with raised eyebrows.

“Among others I may not even need to state here, yes.”

“Well then, let me tell you that if he has committed that crime once, what makes you say he won’t do so again? It’s embedded in his being, Firanis and you know it.”

Firanis gasped while smiling disbelievingly. “What kind of line of reasoning is _that_ , my lord Nasher?”

Nasher frowned. “I am saying—”

“ _I know what you’re saying_!” Firanis shouted. “I just didn’t want to believe such a weak argument would come out of _your_ mouth. Because if that is right, then—”

“Firanis, please—”

The aasimar’s voice grew higher, above the Lord’s. “ _Then_ is my child also guilty of any crime because it’s _embedded_ on her being? You’ve seen her and have met her… Should she also be hung because it’s in her? Should she, my Lord?”

Firanis’s eyelids were half closed and the look on her face as well as the irreverent tone on her voice chilled down the audience.

Nasher puffed. “You know that is not a justifiable argument. I could never sentence an eight-year-old child to the gallows.”

“No?” Firanis raised her eyebrows, still giving him that cynical smile. “Why not then? It’s,” she lifted a hand to her chin and mimicked Nasher’s previously grave tone, “ _embedded_ in her after all; she’s _his_ ,too.”

Firanis had the feeling people were expecting her t pause, but she didn’t have the luxury to do so. She kept on going and he could tell she was so firm in counteracting Nasher that she’d run through _all_ the length to do it. “If you want to avoid any more betrayals, you should cut the evil by the root and kill her as well. Or better yet, throw me in along and you’ll execute the entire source! I have it in me too, after all, with my half-brother leading the Zhentarim forces against us and all. Now that I think of it, _I_ might be the potentially worst threat you have: my family is made of betrayers, sadistic-masochists, pedophiles and murderers and let’s not forget the incestuous relationships they indulge on. And should I also mention that I’ve been cursed by Auril ever since I remember?”

Her shoulders quivered; her voice wavered; tears stung her eyes, but never crossed the borders to the outside. “Look, my Lord, at what’s _embedded_ in me. Look and please, _dare_ to say I’m not a threat to you.”

“Firanis,” Lord Nasher said her name the same way he would say a child’s. “Port Llast was burned down this afternoon and now, the mob is crying for a traitor’s blood.”

Firanis was rendered mute by the news. “They’ve burned Port Llast?”

“It’s just ashes now,” sir Darmon said. “And if we don’t appease the crowd, so will we.”

“Stop the war instead!” Firanis tried to keep her cool, but she still screeched a bit. This was it, her opportunity to present her premature plan. “Send me in. I’ll go into Luskan and annihilate the threat Shemal poses.”

“We cannot do that!” Nasher’s opposition was vehement and strong. “We need at least a couple of weeks to prepare a strike, and even then it’s already risky.”

“But my Lord…” Firanis felt her voice break and she had to clear her throat in order to be able to speak again. “I may not have two weeks.”

“Don’t be a fool, Firanis,” sir Edmund’s tone was utterly of critique. “You’re already getting Rekat and the woman – don’t degrade yourself even more over the ranger.”

“But-”

“It’s decided, then.” Nasher cut Firanis off, and the clerk at his side penned something down. “Bishop is a traitor and he shall be hanged publicly in a fortnight’s time.”

“Don’t do that, my Lord,” Firanis pleaded. “Please, I need him to go into Luskan.”

“We’ve already turned that ridiculous idea down, Firanis.” Nasher dismissed her casually. “Like sir Edmund said, be grateful we’re giving you two-thirds of that you wanted.” Nasher turned to his subordinates. “You may go now. We’ll meet here tomorrow at nine in the morning to begin preparations on the strike against Luskan.”

The noise of chairs being dragged across the floor as the people begun to rise to their feet drove Firanis to act with urgency. Without thinking, she punched the table hard. “My Lord, please _listen_ to me.”

“You’ve made your point and it’s been denied.” Nasher gritted his teeth, but his voice never rose to something as hysterical as a shout. “Your feelings for Bishop have been taken into consideration and we have decided they are just clouding your judgment.”

Firanis was sure she had lost her argument but even so, she kept on objecting. And just as Nasher, ignoring Firanis’s protests, started to make a turn to finally leave, the door swung open. “Will you risk another Aribeth, my Lord Nasher?” a chilling, cool voice filled the room. The half-elf casually swaggered into the War Room, her child held up high in determination.

“Radrien,” Nasher breathed out.

“Yes, Nasher.” Radrien’s smile could almost be considered malevolent “It is I.”


	18. Frottola: Answers, Dance, Trust

**_Frottola_ **

****

_“Are you so truly desperate to win that you will kill her in order to do it?”_

_“We’ll see.”_

**Eighteen**

_Answers_

_Dance_

_Trust_

 

 

Radrien and Amaya stood together, talking in the middle of the audience room and the six members of the Nine stopped in unison and looked at each other.

Nevalle’s smile was uneasy. “I get shivers whenever I see those two together.”

 “Only the Gods know what they might be plotting,” Sir Grayson whispered in an almost desperate tone.

“It’s like our own private hell,” Katriona added.

“Civilians shouldn’t be allowed to know the little laws,” Sir Darmon said, shaking his head. “Not when it allows them to circumvent the law.”

“If they didn’t know so much, we would have caught them ages ago,” Jenna lightly muttered.

“Criminals on the loose, protected by bureaucracy,” Cormick let out. “They give us more trouble than they are worth.”

They all shared a collective, indignant sigh, coupled with a shake of their heads. Amaya placed a hand on Radrien’s shoulder and, after saying something else to her half-sister, left the room in a hurriedly cheerful waltz. Firanis soon took her place by Radrien’s side.

“Well, at least she got what she wanted.” Jenna rolled her eyes, her voice nothing but a low breath. “I can deal with Radrien and Amaya sticking their nose into business that’s none of theirs, but at least they’re not wasting our time over a ridiculous infatuation.”

“It’s something more than that,” Nevalle pensively said. “Firanis liked bluffing her way out of everything in the past, but…”

“You don’t think she was doing so when she said she had to infiltrate Luskan,” Katriona completed. “Quite frankly, neither do I. It’s like she’s really…”

Nevalle and Katriona exchanged a brief glance. “Dying,” they said in unison.

“You don’t really think-” Jenna bit down her tongue when both Radrien and Firanis sent the six of them a pointed glare. The conversation was broken immediately and the Nine left the room, Katriona and Nevalle in one direction, still whispering to one another, and the other four in the other.

“I hate this city,” Radrien firmly stated after a sharp outtake of breath. “I hate it because someone I love kept placing it above everything else – even me. And it nearly took him away.” She hugged herself as If some cold wind from a bad memory had just passed by. “After I defeated Morag, there was this whole rebuilding project and everyone was excited about it… even Aribeth; but that was until a trial like the one tomorrow took place and she was sentenced to death.”

Firanis frowned. She was vaguely aware of the past Neverwinter history and she knew the Hero had left shortly after the execution; the details, however, were unknown to her.

“I couldn’t remain here after Aribeth was killed; I couldn’t help rebuild a city whose citizens had reveled in the death of someone who ended up falling because they’d killed someone she loved… someone innocent; I couldn’t look at anyone without tasting bile on my throat with disgust. Aribeth recognized the evil she’d done and deserved a chance at redemption… But they gave her none.

“So, I went to Nasher and said I was going to leave. Aarin was divided between me and the city and, when I told him I _was_ leaving with or without him, he broke and grew somewhat aloof in his services. Nasher didn’t understand how torn he was and so he forced him to choose. The mere thought of being apart from him hurt and I still don’t know what would have happened to me if he’d decided to stay. But apparently, being forced into a decision shattered some of the faith he had in Nasher; the next night, we were leaving and didn’t come back until Tyavain was born.”

“Why did you come here today then?” Firanis asked.

Radrien smiled pensively. “Your situation reminded me of Aribeth and… I had to step up. I couldn’t let another injustice such as the one that happened nineteen years ago happen – that, and Tyavain.”

“You’re her aunt, aren’t you? I seem to be meeting all her family today,” commented Firanis.

“Not all, but certainly a major part  of it. After all, Amianna is here as well.”

That name seemed vaguely familiar. “Amianna?”

“Tyavain’s other aunt. She…” Radrien _harrumph_ ed acutely and, placing a hand on each side of her waist, she looked up, as though she was waiting for some form of insight to drop on her from the sky. Her mouth opened roundly. “Oh,” she let out. “Yes, I guess that would make sense.”

“What would make sense?” asked Firanis.

Radrien looked back at the aasimar, a shoulder lifted in nonchalance. “I wouldn’t worry about it – you’ll find out soon enough. I would, however, worry about the upcoming trial.”

“I still haven’t thank you for that.” Firanis bowed deeply.

“No, no, no. No need to bow.” Radrien grasped Firanis’s arms, bringing her back up – which, considering Radrien was several inches shorter than the aasimar, was nothing short of awkward. “Like I said before… I could not bear to see another Aribeth.” Her face lit up then; as her eyes moved beyond Firanis, she spread her welcoming arms. “I am _so_ glad to see you well,” she said.

Firanis turned just in time to see Tyavain closing the distance between herself and her aunt, falling into Radrien’s warm embrace. That tender moment didn’t last long, however, and as soon as Radrien planted a kiss upon the top of Tyavain’s head, they parted.

“I hope my aunt hasn’t tired you with her endless conspiracy theories,” said Tyavain, whose lips broke into a smile when Radrien placed an arm around her shoulders.

“You know I only do that with your mother,” Radrien admonished.

“Yes, and she’s always too willing to discuss that subject, unfortunately,” Tyavain muttered under her breath. She then turned to Firanis. “My aunt Amianna wants to see you. She said she might be able to help you with the curse.”

Firanis’s eyebrows shot up. Why would Tyavain’s other aunt be able to help her with the curse when the only few people who knew about it were either her closest friends or in the Upper Planes? “She… does? How?”

“Because I told her about it.” After Tyavain had kissed Radrien’s cheek and bid her goodbye, she took Firanis by the hand. “Come, let us meet her.”

“Not that I’m not grateful your aunt has help to offer, but…” Firanis dawdled on her words, out of both embarrassment and decorum. “Who is she?”

“You shouldn’t worry about that – she only ever knew about you because I told her. And she only has help to offer because your situation intrigued her.”

“Yes, but-”

“Do you remember the bhaalspawn saga, Firanis?” Tyavain spoke before Firanis could finish her sentence. Her question was rhetorical, though, because she didn’t even wait for Firanis to reply. “Aunt Amianna was in the center of it. Of all the children Bhaal had, the taint was the strongest in aunt Amianna, and she was the one who put an end to it.”

Firanis remembered the whole bhaalspawn ordeal from when she was very young. She had learned about it from Amie, who had learned it from Tarmas, and the name of the woman who had made a name for herself during those times had stuck vaguely in her memory. “I remember it, vaguely,” said Firanis. “But I never knew the details.”

“I have no doubt that she’ll tell you whatever you need to know.” Tyavain stopped in front of a door, which she softly pushed open. Firanis noticed the back of Tyavain’s dress undulated, probably due to the girl’s tail moving back and forth beneath it. “She’s waiting for you inside.”

Tyavain pivoted on her heels to leave, but before she could do so, Firanis called out her name. The girl stopped and turned back to the aasimar, a quizzical look on her features. “Yes?”

Firanis’s forehead creased. “I never really understood why you’ve been helping me.”

Tyavain’s lips dropped as a breath passed through. Her eyes, icy blue in their color, glistened with sadness. She shuddered along with a memory that passed through her, and so did her voice. “When you have no place, you’ll do everything within your power – and more – to find one. I went to the Lower Planes, and there I met the Knower of Places. I asked her…” She took a hand to her eyes and, albeit Firanis could not see it, she had a feeling that Tyavain had done so to wipe out a tear before it could fall. “I asked her about _my_ place. And she told me she could not see it because my place was hidden at the end of my journey – and the beginning of that journey was hidden at the end of _yours_.”

Tyavain sniffed and straightened her stance and face to the point she seemed made of iron. Her voice was a hard, convincing hiss. “So far, all I’ve ever known about myself is that I’m a pox on the laws of the Universe. So, if there’s a chance I’ll be more than Twice-Damned, Homeless and Unbelonging, if there’s a chance I’ll finally find myself… I’m sorry of this sounds selfish, but if seeing you through this war is what it takes for me to finally find a reason for my existence, I will do _everything_ I can to get you there.”

“Tyavain…” Firanis breathed.

The girl blinked and shook her head as though she was lost. She took a hand to the side of her head and closed her guilty eyes, chuckling bitterly. “I’m sorry. I tend to get bitter over my time on the Lower Planes – either that, or I really am selfish.”

“At one point or another, we all are,” said Firanis, trying to keep her tone light.

Tyavain made an amused sound from the back of her throat. “Have you ever thought of following your own advice?”

“I’m following it right now, and look at where Bishop’s headed,” Firanis snorted. Seriousness overtook her then, and, softly, she said, “I’d never be able to get out of the Upper Planes hadn’t it been for you. However this ends, I’m glad that at least, I’ll be helping you. So, for what’s worth, thank you.”

“ _Hm_.” Tyavain cocked her head to the side. “And for what’s worth, I’m glad that, of all people, I have to help you. At least it’s someone I like. But do go on inside, will you?” She nodded towards the door she’d left ajar. “I do hope my aunt has good news.”

Abruptly, Tyavain began to walk away, swiftly cutting a corner and leaving Firanis alone. With little choice, the aasimar went inside the room, closing the door behind her.

When she first inhaled, Firanis detected the scent of various herbs in the moist air, which, she reckoned, came from the various candles which dimly lit the room. In front of her, sat on armchair a woman dressed in yellow, with a heavy dark brown shawl resting on her shoulders. Firanis was graced by the soft flavor of surprise when she recognized this woman as one of the pieces in Eleste’s chess tray.

“You must be Firanis.” The woman’s voice was crystal clear, like pure water, and possessed a timbre Firanis had never quite heard. Her hand, small and white, flourished in the direction of the sofa in front of her. “Please, sit down.”

 Firanis obeyed. There was a table between herself and the woman, and it was covered with sheets – some written, others blank – and a single vial of ink and a quill. “Are you-?”

“Amianna, yes.” Amianna’s bright yellow eyes moved across Firanis in careful examination. “Curious,” she whispered after some time. “I would never have expected an aasimar.”

“Why?”

“Well, no offence, but your kind is usually more into stopping curses rather than suffering from them.” She tossed her dark, wavy hair to the side and picked up the quill. She dipped it in ink and wrote a sequence of small, quick notes on a white sheet. “Around twenty years ago, I too was succumbing to a taint on my soul,” Amianna spoke softly, almost as though she was afraid her words would shatter at any moment. “A taint which, just like yours, had been passed down to me by my father.

“Thus, when Tyavain told me, over eight years ago, of a woman whose soul was afflicted with a pain that shouldn’t have been hers, she, in all her childish lightheartedness, was giving me the job to find you a way of curing you.”

“And did you?” The question had come unbidden in its urgency. Firanis almost regretted asking it so suddenly, but then, Amaya’s pale lids, lined blue by veins, slid shut over her bright yellow eyes. Her face was grave and heavy, much like her voice. “No – at least, not entirely.”

Firanis sat very straight, commanding herself to breathe evenly. She stared at Amianna, who still had her eyes closed and, while she waited for the other woman to speak again, the aasimar finally had the time to examine the half-elf in close detail. Square-faced and slender-bodied, with sharp eyebrows and a small nose, thin, clasped hands, a yellow dress that was much too large for her as though it was made to disguise blatant thinness…

This woman was sick – deathly so, Firanis dared to add. She had noticed the remarkable paleness of Amianna’s skin before, true. However, she now realized the lack of color was not natural, but due to ailing health. The heavy shadows under her eyes, the opaqueness of her complexion, the fading pink lips, the premature hard lines on her features…

Firanis looked up at Amianna’s face once more and was shocked to find the other woman’s unnerving yellow eyes ruthlessly staring back at her. “Even with my bloodright long gone, you and I still share some things.”

“You are dying,” Firanis stated.

“So are you.”

“But…” Firanis brought down her eyebrows. “Didn’t you get rid of the bhaalspawn part of yourself?”

Amianna’s face softened as she sighed. “Yes, I did. But because it _was_ a part of me, in getting rid of it, I destroyed something of myself as well. My health was never strong, even at its peak, and this only made its deteriorating swifter.” Amianna held up a hand, halting the words that were about to come out of Firanis’s mind. “I always knew there would be a price to pay and now that I know it both what I’ve lost and what I’ve gained after I gave my right to Godhood up… _Trust_ me when I say that if I could go back, I’d make the exact same choice.” She paused, pursing her lips. “Wouldn’t you?”

It didn’t even take a second for Firanis to know exactly what Amianna meant. “I would.”

Amianna inclined her head forward. “Everything repeats itself. This world is a cycle and we’d be fools to think we’re unique among its devious machinations. You and I – we’re different and yet, we’re the same. There are divine hands in both of our fates, Firanis. There was a time when my soul was taken from me and, during that time, I had to fight the Slayer inside me. In time, I learned to control it but…

“In your case, most of your soul is still there, but it’s so broken you can no longer hold the hunger back and you have no time to learn how to do so. What’s kept you alive for so long was the eldritch power you possess, but instead of plugging the holes, it’s been set free and it’s no longer there to protect you… allowing the darkness inside you to grow so fast, it’s eating you alive.

“The curse connects you and everyone in contact with it – which is something I’m certain you’ve realized by now. Just as I’m sure you’ve realized that once it’s done with you, it’ll go to the closest bearer. Eventually, it’ll find a way to the one you want to protect the most: your daughter.”

Amianna paused and waited for the information to sink in on Firanis. “I have come to realize that, yes,” the aasimar said, her voice nearly fleeing her. “Which is why I need to know how I can stop it.”

“I’ve already told you that when one of you dies, his or her part of the curse will shift to the closest bearer. It’d be easy if you just wanted the most dangerous of your siblings out of the picture, but you want both to keep your daughter alive _and_ free her of her curse.”

“Please don’t tell me that’s not possible,” Firanis wistfully begged.

“No, it’s not.” Amianna leaned forward on her seat, clasping both of Firanis’s hands in her own. “So listen to me, Firanis, and listen carefully.”

 

 

It was the middle of the night and Aniel could do nothing but pace around her room. She had been let out of the prison an hour or two ago, and already she wished to escape the confined space of the room she’d been given.

She threw open the door and went outside. The guard watched her with suspicion, but aside from that, made no move to stop Aniel from walking through to corridors. After all, the place was heavily guarded, and it had been made clear to Aniel that, should she try to scheme a nearly impossible escape, she’d die on the spot. Not that she’d try to do it anyway. Success would lead to being on the run from Shemal, which would be worse than death itself. And besides…

Aniel stopped dead on her tracks when she reached the open courtyard. High torches lit up the extremities of the place, but the center was only illuminated by moonlight itself. Slowly, as though beckoned, she approached the middle, not bothered by the cold, cruel wind and, once she was there, she took the coined veil at her waist and, with it, drew a circle on the air.

She danced.

It wasn’t that she _liked_ dancing; in fact, she avoided it whenever she could, as it only reminded her of her home in Zakhara and of a time when she had danced every night, forced by the matron of a brothel she worked at. Yet, she was dancing. Aniel was dancing because it was the only familiar thing she had left.

When she was young, she had always thought her home would be awaiting her forever. When she had been sold in Skuld, familiarity had been a room with nothing but a haystack. In Baldur’s Gate, it had been leaves and roots and poisons. Then, it had been Rekat. For years and years, Aniel had always thought she’d always have Rekat to go back to. They had their fallouts, but he would always be there in the end.

Now she had none of that. No home in Zakhara, no room with a haystack, no poisons or plants or roots and, mainly, no Rekat. So, even though she hated it, she danced. All her sorrow and happiness, all her relief and despair, all her hatred and her love… Aniel danced it all away, hoping to forget everything.

She forgot nothing.

What little she remembered of Zakhara and her adoptive parents was still there, as well as the djinni who had sold her in Skuld, and the Chancellor and the Brothel. Aniel didn’t care about those memories much. She could live with those; the ones she couldn’t, however, the ones she was so desperately trying to get rid of… The memories of Rekat, of his lips, of his skin and his touch… Those were only more vivid than before.

It was only when Aniel, tired and hopeless, stopped, that she saw the shadows in front of her were _moving_. No, not shadows, but a man, clad in a ragged black outfit that was made to easily cast him into darkness so that, were it intact, none of his features could be seen.

Until he looked up.

Those green eyes remained like the untamed, free waters of a river, flowing unrestricted, and the currents were so potent they kicked the breath out of Aniel’s lungs. Aniel tried to free herself from the mesmerizing hold, but she was held fast, and she was almost begging to be held longer, for another second, another minute, another hour…

Aniel dropped her veil, and it fell onto the floor with a melodic chink. She was expecting Rekat to retreat back into the shadows, as he had almost eight years ago, but he came forward instead – and with each step he took towards her, Aniel felt the strength of her heartbeat increasing to the point it became painful. When Rekat stopped beside her, all of Aniel’s body was a quiver she could not contain.

With each passing moment, Aniel felt the already heavy burden on her heart weighing her down even more, as the weight of everything around her settled. She knew she should leave, but she had neither the will nor the strength to do so. And because she could not bring herself to speak either, all Aniel could do was let the silent tears flow down her cheeks until it ended.

It didn’t. And Rekat and Aniel stood side by side for hours on end without either of them daring to utter a single word.

Yarija was in the balcony outside her room, the cold breeze welcome against her burning, feverish skin. Her back was bleeding, but knowing there was little she could do about it, Yarija left it unattended.

Well, at least she finally knew why she was connected to Shemal. Yarija exhaled, unable to hold back the bitter flavor on her tongue. Well, at least Rimal would be satisfied to know his insults had some true basis to them. She really was inbred. And with parents as hateful as hers, Yarija figured the hideousness they harbored on the inside had been so absolute, it had tainted all of her.

Gods, no wonder she was ugly. And if that wasn’t enough, Shemal had decided to play a number on her and settle most of his part of the curse down on her… As though what she’d already got from both him and Ethlinn wouldn’t have been enough to ruin her life.

Yarija was vaguely aware of Aniel making her slow way to the middle of the courtyard. She was – had always been - her sister, just like Brian had always been her brother.

Bile rose up in Yarija’s throat. For a time, she had wanted Brian. She had kissed him and she was thankful to all Gods in the Multiverse that she had had the good sense to discern something had been wrong before things had gotten out of hand. At least there was something in her Shemal and Ethlinn hadn’t corrupted from the start.

Yarija brushed a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and, somehow, noticed Rimal on another balcony, not far from hers, and how Rimal’s eyes slit as they followed Aniel; she noticed how his lips pursed when Rekat stopped at her side and simply stood there without so much as a murmur between them, as though each other’s mere presences were all Aniel and Rekat needed to live.

Yarija’s heart trembled; the darkness coiled in a protest so strong she had to clutch her stomach so as to keep herself from kneeling over and throwing up. Heat, so much heat enveloped her… She searched inside her for an answer, to see where the balance was shifting…

Unbidden, from a place so near and yet so far away, came recollections of events she had long thought buried.

She saw Rimal freeze into place but she did not know why. She was so close to melting with all the heat that came from down below, a heat to which even Rekat’s temperance gave in. It was just like what had happened when Firanis had let go of the cold when she’d been with Bishop. It’d thrown the curse off balance because there was no _cold_ to be felt; now there was no autumn, not half of the moderation and the fires of summer had increased.

An ache in her chest told her she missed Rimal. How _could_ she miss Rimal? They’d spent little time together without trying to rip each other’s throat off, and even then, things had been uneasy between them. More often than not she’d been annoyed by his presence and he’d threatened her a lot. Plus, he’d tried to join Shemal in a quest for mad love.

 _And for the Gods’ sake, Yarija, he’s right there_ , her conscience reprimanded.

So why, _why_ did she abruptly miss him so much?  

 

The conversation she’d had with Amianna last night was corroboration enough for what Firanis had already suspected. Bishop’s trial was tomorrow and, in the little time she had left, she had to tie up all the loose ends left, the first of which was finding who the eighth person was, and for that, she needed Ammon Jerro.

In the hall, Firanis stopped. “Bevil?” Firanis squinted at a man near one of the columns, talking to a robed wizard. Her pursed lips turned from a stern line to a light, soft smile. “Bevil!” she shouted and ran to the man, arms open; when her unfortunate childhood friend noticed her, she was jumping onto him, wrapping him in a tight embrace.

“Firanis?” the man said, looking down at the copper-colored head under him, apparently taken aback by the gesture.

“You’re here, Bevil!” her voice was smothered by the man’s chest… And knowing her, Bevil could almost say she was crying. “I cannot believe, you, of all people, are here…” she let out a short sob, leaving Bevil no other choice but to embrace her as well.

“I was here before, you know. I came as soon as I heard you were alive, but you’d already left for Luskan,” he said. He patted Firanis’s back lightly. “There, there, Firanis. I’ve missed you too.”

“ _Pah_. Figures.” Firanis stepped back from Bevil at the sound of a terribly familiar voice. “Went straight to the farm boy without minding the old coot here.”

 “Ah, Tarmas. I would say I’ve missed your cynicism, but this sentimental side of yours is much better.”

The wizard snorted, but he did spread his arms and hugged Firanis. “Just don’t get used to it.” He held the aasimar at an arm’s length and sighed. “You look like hell.”

“Feel like it too,” said Firanis. Her eyes alternated between Bevil and Tarmas. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I’m here due to security measures,” Bevil answered.

“And I insisted I came along.” Tarmas smoothened his robes with one hand while the other grasped a firm staff. “For some reason, Esmerelle thought I’d make a fine information receptacle and decided to bestow upon me the curse passing it down to you.”

“You…” Firanis stammered. “You knew Esmerelle?”

The wizard rolled his eyes and turned to Bevil. “I’m sure you have to be somewhere.”

Bevil opened his mouth. “But-”

“ _Bah_. Leave. You’ll have time to catch up with her at another time.”

Firanis smiled ruefully at her childhood friend. “I’ll see you later, Bevil.”

“You will.” Bevil squeezed one of Firanis’s hands. “Take care. Tarmas is only more unbearable than you remember.”

“ _Shoo_!” Tarmas dismissed Bevil with the bottom of his staff, sending the other man scurrying away. “Never got brighter, that boy. But alas, ignorance is bliss – at least I’m sure you’d be a lot happier if you didn’t know what crap you’ve inherited from your father.” He grimaced at Firanis’s surprise. “Yes, I do know about the curse. Esmerelle made sure I did in case she died.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me before?” Firanis asked. “Why leave me to wonder for so long?”

“You had other things to worry about.” Tarmas confidently took Firanis by the elbow. “Walk with me.”

Grudgingly, Firanis obeyed. She had been glad to see both Bevil and Tarmas – she still was, - but the fact that the old wizard had hidden this from her for so many years arose suspicion in her. “Tarmas, tell me.”

“Before you blame me, you should be aware that your mother made me swear I’d only reveal this to you when it became strictly necessary.” He help up a finger in front of Firanis’s face, shushing the remark she was about to make. “I know how quick you are to jump to conclusions, girl – don’t try to deny that. So, where was I? Ah, yes. Esmerelle said that I should wait until there were no more options left to tell you what she knew. And now that you’re dying-”

“How do you know that?” Firanis’s voice was a low hiss.

“Please, girl. I’ve seen you covered in mud and even then you looked better than you do now. I knew you were dying the moment I set my eyes on you. Also, Esmerelle warned me about a particular sibling of yours that is going to attack Neverwinter soon. “ _He has to be stopped!_ ” she told me.

“And then she died and left me with the bothersome task to tell you that there’s a way to shift the curse to yourself without killing the other host. You wonder why she knew how to do so. Well, so do I, but I never asked her about it and now she’s dead.”

“But she told you Shemal had to be stopped. Why would she care about shifting the curse to myself without killing the other person?”

“Your mother took a liking to your other brother – she even helped him and his mother escape Erebus. She said she knew you two would be different from Shemal and Ethlinn because you’d gotten away from your father in time.” Tarmas chuckled. “And what do you know, she might’ve got that right. Even I know you want to know how to do it, Firanis, even if it kills you.”

“It _is_ killing me,” Firanis affirmed.

“Well, yes, but you don’t want your daughter to die, do you? Oh, Firanis, just stop being so surprised at everything I say! I met the girl the last time I was here.” Tarmas took a hand to his back and stopped to rub it. “I’d attempt lichdom to get rid of these pains if I thought it was worth it.”

“It isn’t?”

“Not really. There’s a time when everyone should grow tired of living and die. I’m nearly there, but you…” He _tsk_ ed. “You shouldn’t be. At any rate, about what Esmerelle said…”

Together, Firanis and Tarmas strolled around Castle Never for what had to be hours. At least Firanis felt like she’d been listening at the old wizard for a long time. He told her everything, all she needed to know about how to remove the curse from anyone she wished and into herself, how she would supposedly save Ilwyn and whoever else she wished to.

“It feels like all this has been orchestrated,” Firanis passively commented.

“In a way,” Tarmas agreed. “But think about it this way… Isn’t four deaths enough?”

When Tarmas came to a halt right at the edge of the courtyard, Firanis knew exactly what he’d meant with that statement. Much to her surprise, right at the middle were Rekat and Aniel, standing close to each other; they were apart, not touching, and without a mere word being exchanged between them…

 _True fear… and true love,_ Firanis thought. Inside, she felt Rekat’s emotions grazing her own, rubbing her soul with their sadness and their pain and their longing…

She approached them, eyes were downcast. She stole one final look at Tarmas from over her shoulder and found that the wizard was nodding approvingly at her before he left in a curtain of flowing robes.

Firanis eyed the two in front of her, her voice a hesitant whisper as she pronounced the simple statement. “I think I know of a way.”

Rekat was still silenced; Aniel inhaled sharply through her nose, showing signs of impatience that were mirrored through her voice when she said, “Well? How?”

“Whatever it is that resides within us,” Firanis begun explaining, “Shemal’s got the worst of it; that’s why he’s so powerful and, at the same time, fragile. While Rekat and Ethlinn cannot feel the cold and the heat, Shemal and I are stuck with one of them – thus making us vulnerable to each other. I guess that’s what out father meant to happen… make us weak against each other so that neither of us would battle and disturb the balance of the Inner Darkness.”

“And that means?” Aniel inquired.

“Let’s say that I can, somehow, dull that limitation. What would happen?”

Rekat’s eyes wandered to his sister, pensively. “Technically, you would become stronger than Shemal.”

Firanis nodded almost enthusiastically. “Yes. In order to defeat him, I have to become something more than Shemal.”

Aniel snorted, swaying her hips to one side while folding her arms. “And how do you propose we achieve that, Princess?”

Firanis closed her eyelids as though preparing to say something big. “Bishop told me that you dance, Aniel, shadows come… that’s because their darkness resonates with your own. So would our darknesses – Rekat’s and mine.” Slowly, her eyes fluttered open to lock on Rekat’s liquid green ones. “I can receive that part of the darkness which our father passed down onto you, Rekat.” Her attention flicked to Aniel. “The same with you.

“It won’t work,” Rekat whispered.

“No, not just with that. But if you have that darkness around your soul affixed to someone through a true name…” Firanis let her sentence hand in the air for a second.

“That’s why Shemal wants your child,” Rekat concluded. “A truenamer is not at all impossible to find, but someone who speaks directly to the soul…”

“So what do you propose we do?” asked Aniel.

“You all – Aniel, Rekat, Yarija and Ilwyn, - can pass the curse to me. We infiltrate Luskan, kill the remaining three and, when Shemal dies, I will pass the curse onto him and it will die with him.”

“Can you do that?” Rekat was dubious.

“Yes. The curse shifts when a holder dies. We kill Ethlinn and the other one – whose identity I will find with the help of an expert in bloodlines, - their part of the curse shifts to me and, just as Shemal is about to die as well, I’ll reverse the process and give darkness to him. That way, they both die and we all walk away freely.”

Rekat smirked. “Expert in bloodlines, eh? Where might you get one in such a short notice?”

“I met one a long time ago.” Firanis lifted a shoulder and tilted her head to that side. “All I have to do is summon her.”

For a while, there was no sound beyond the chirping of the birds and the hurried steps and the hushed voices of the inhabitants of the castle. Aniel eventually exhaled her exasperation. “Fine. Come find me when you need me.”

Firanis thanked her, but she had the feeling Aniel didn’t hear. Her steps were brisk and long, telling Firanis Aniel had, indeed, been in a hurry.

“We stood here all night,” Rekat wheezed, as though it was explanation enough for their erratic behavior.

“I had been wondering why you weren’t speaking directly to one another,” Firanis said. Rekat sat down on a bench and Firanis did the same beside him taking the pause to breathe in and out and look up at the grey sky. “What we inherited from our father changed according to our personalities. Just as Ethlinn’s naturally envious nature can draw life into itself… I can read people because they let their guard drop whenever I’m near. Mostly, they drop the guard they have around here.” She touched the place where his heart would be with her free hand.

“And for me, what came with the curse was anonymity.” Rekat shrugged half-heartedly. “To people, I’m like a common shadow they tend to ignore. Ethlinn is sort of the same, except that she fights it. You and Shemal are the complete opposite. You draw attention. People look at you despite themselves. The only difference is that, where he strikes fear and seduction, you…” Rekat licked his lips and shook his head. “Firanis, you’re like this comforting presence. People are naturally at ease around you. You emanate this sense of complicity that’s hard to doubt.”

“I think the point of it would have been to use the knowledge against other people but I… I−“

“You can’t. And you don’t understand why.”

She nodded. “There are so many things I don’t understand, Rekat. I know now why Shemal pushes the cold to the point of utter balance and why you ease it just a little; but I truly can’t figure out why _Bishop_ can turn me into flames. He’s not one of us, Rekat, not even closely and yet…” Firanis bit into her lip, seeming unsure of how to go on.

“What did you feel the first time you met him?” he asked.

A small, grieving smile tugged at the corner of the aasimar’s lips; Rekat thought it made her look almost unreal. “The first time he touched me, it was just a small brush of hands. It was also the first time I felt warm. Wanted. He told me I was cold and my breath got stuck on my throat and I couldn’t speak, couldn’t draw my eyes away from him; couldn’t put aside the feeling that I wanted him back. But there was something else, Rekat, because, as we looked at each other, I felt pain. I felt scorn. And still, I _knew_ nothing of it was directed at me.”

“You wanted to heal him,” Rekat observed.

Firanis sighed. “I did. I loathe seeing people wallowing in their own misery when they could be trying to redeem themselves. But what’s worst is, when I was there myself, I didn’t _want_ to fight it. I guess that’s why I understand Bishop a little better now and why he left me; and that’s why I forgave it.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “You follow Ilmater, don’t you?”

She chuckled, “That obvious?”

“And ironical. Auril must’ve tossed and turned in Fury’s Heart when you decided on that path.”

“I’m glad,” Firanis said, smugly.

“Then maybe Bishop was sent to you by your God as a counterbalance to the curse?” he suggested. It _was_ possible, considering Ilmater’s faith was set on helping the suffering. If Firanis’s gift allowed her to see someone’s pain, then she, as a follower of the Broken God would only try to ease it.

Such martyrdom, coming from Shemal and Ethlinn’s – and his - sister, was amusing. She really had made his guard drop and, when Firanis took his hand and gave it a squeeze, Rekat understood that she had done it on purpose. Yet, instead of being mad at her, Rekat was curious… Curious as to what she wanted to talk about.

“You know, Rekat… When I met Aniel I wondered who could be the thief who had walked away with her heart. Now I see that just as that man so deftly robbed hers, she poisoned his to make it beat for her.” Firanis frowned and wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry, Rekat, I make it sound like it’s something irredeemably bad when it’s not.”

So this was it. “I think it is,” Rekat bleakly stated.

“Falling in love is not bad; it’s the denial of it that is.” Her fingers traced over his in small, soothing waves. “And that is what you both are doing, isn’t it?”

“She is Shemal’s daughter.”

“Not when you met her, she wasn’t.”

“She is now.”

Firanis took a breath in, and sharply let it out. “Usually, when people discover the true depth of their feelings for another,” Firanis began. “They’re scared. Some of them face it with courage while others run away and hope it’s such a passing thing. It works, sometimes.” She tilted her head to the side. “But that’s only when what you feel isn’t really strong.”

“Speaking from experience?” Rekat asked.

Firanis gave him a tight smile, “In more ways than I’d like. Bishop and I never made a popular couple; if you’re guessing that we kept it pretty much hidden from everyone else, you’re right; we did. But then I squeezed out a kid and the truth came out like a thunderstorm – all unwanted and noisy and irrefutable unless you’re both blind and deaf.” She shook her head. “Anyway my point is, we were both scared. When I realized how I felt, I just _couldn’t_ go out and tell everyone because I was just so afraid of what would happen if I did. I called Bishop a coward because he walked away when things got tougher but I am no better. In my own way, I left us hanging too – and I’m doing so again now.”

From the corner of her eye, Firanis saw Rekat’s pearly white teeth flash in a smirk, “You keep making mistakes and yet you’re trying to give me advice.”

“Brother, do that which I tell you, not that which I’ve done.” She sighed deeply. “Really, Rekat – the way you and Aniel act around each other, it’s tearing both of you apart. Do not walk away from her; but please, _do_ get out of this mess.”

Firanis got up, the sudden movement causing her head to hurt. She massaged her temples gently. “You should get some rest,” Rekat advised her. Firanis snorted. “Look who’s talking.”

She put her hands on her waist and breathed profoundly. “At any rate, think about what I’ve told you, will you?”

“You could just kill us and save yourself all this effort,” Rekat offered.

“I don’t really want to kill you,” said Firanis.

Rekat placed his elbows on his knees and, leaning forward, looked at his sister. “Do you want to die that badly?”

At first, Firanis thought Rekat had thrown her that remark with certainty; however, on a second thought, she knew he had just said it because her plan was nothing short of suicidal. “I’m not going to.”

Rekat shook his head. “Be my guest, then. You’re old enough to know what you’re doing – who am I to complain if it helps me?”

Firanis smiled. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Firanis. I’m just looking out for myself.”

Before the aasimar left her brother alone with his sullenness, she laid down a hand on his shoulder. “Now you can think about the rest of our talk.”

Rekat’s eyes, reddened and small with insomnia, were focused on her. He let out an uncompromised grunt and, by the time Firanis was out of the courtyard, he was already gone as well.The aasimar then proceeded to finally meet Ammon Jerro in the dungeons.Once there, she called out the warlock’s name, her voice echoing through empty walls.

Ammon’s hoarse voice came from a room at the end of the corridor; she stepped through the door to find it to be unreasonably clean and spacious.

“I had all the boxes moved and the room cleaned.” Jerro informed, beckoning her closer; he stood in the middle of the room, a half-finished circle of power drawn around him. “Are you sure this has to be done?”

She nodded and extended him the bracelet charm. “I had Sand enchant it for me, following your instructions. He wasn’t happy, but did it nonetheless.”

“That elf is never happy,” Ammon growled. “Moving on… Do you know how to draw the circles to contain the demons?”

“You and I summoned Mephasm eight years ago, remember? And I’ve gone over the details last night, while waiting for Sand,” Firanis knelt down and picked up a piece of white chalk to begin drawing the missing symbols.

She and Ammon worked together in silence until he finally asked, “And why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

“Stay there. With Shemal.”

Firanis sat back on her heels, hugging her knees, questioning him with her eyes.

“He _is_ your perfect half, Firanis and you wouldn’t be on the losing side of this war; rather, you’d most likely be ruling the Sword Coast by the time this was finished.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Ammon, everyone’s happy I’m back. Aren’t you?”

“I’m worried that, upon choosing to return, you’ve sentenced yourself to death!” he spat, the chalk he’d been using falling on the floor, forgotten. “Why return when you could’ve led the life so many people covet but none of them will ever have? Sure, your return caused lots of people to be happy, but what will happen when you die because of a foolish choice?”

“Ammon−”

“You should have gone with the choice which was more profitable for _you_ , Firanis and not have concerned yourself over us. We’d feel betrayed, we’d feel angry, but you’d be alive.” He gestured wildly around himself. “So tell me why. The _real_ reason.”

Firanis let her lids drop slightly as she bit the inside of her cheek, thoughtful. “You read me so well; can’t you guess?”

“No.”

“And you wouldn’t have been sad if I had traded you for Shemal?”

“I would, but I would have understood why you’d done so.”

She smiled and, by the look on his face, Firanis saw Ammon was completely astonished. “As I said, you read me well, Ammon. I _was_ tempted to stay there with Shemal because he was just… perfect for me. His darkness compliments mine in a way no other ever will, but still…” Thoughtlessly, she took a hand to her heart. “My heart didn’t warm up to his and neither did the holes in my soul fill. Staying with Shemal might’ve led me to power but I’d always have been missing something.”

“And what made you realize that?”

Her eyes met his and she saw that Ammon Jerro wasn’t judging her; he was merely curious. He was the one person, among the ones who’d battled beside her in the Vale of Merdelain, to whom she could talk about the darkest recesses of her soul because she knew that, whatever bad thing she was contemplating on doing, he’d most likely have done it already. “Bishop did.”

Ammon paused, studying her deeper. “Tyavain always did say he was the only one who could save you from the darkness which lurked within you.”

“Tyavain knows a lot it seems.” Firanis wrapped her arms about herself as if for comfort. “She knew all along what would happen to me in Luskan and yet, she didn’t tell me because she knew I’d spend all my time mulling over the way to act the instant I saw him again.”

“And she wanted you to be caught by surprise and let your instincts say the rest.”

“She knows a lot,” Firanis repeated. “But Ammon, even after realizing that I’d never be truly happy with Shemal, I still didn’t make a move to get out of there until I thought Ilwyn was in danger. I was selfish enough to consider, even if just for a moment, that I could stay with Bishop and have our affair hidden and bring Ilwyn to me. In the end, reality slapped me hard when I discovered who Lenya truly was.

“It was a horrible, horrible decision I had to make. A part of me told me to stay and behave because nothing would happen but the biggest one forced me to leave. Shemal had this… _thing_ over me not being his and I knew the moment he found out who Ilwyn’s father was, Ilwyn would suffer. Yet I never expected the person who would bring him such information would have been a double agent…”

She inhaled. “And then I knew I had to come back because I didn’t want you to fall prey to her – but mostly, I came back because I knew Shemal would try to get to me through Ilwyn and I had to make sure my child was safe.

“As for the power I could have had… I don’t want to rule anything beyond what I already have – even that is already more than what I asked for in my wildest dreams - and I don’t want power to destroy the world. So, Ammon, in the end, it really was because of you all that I came back. You’re my home-ship, Ilwyn’s my anchor and Bishop’s my safe harbor. It really is that simple.”

She looked down, biting into her lip; soon after, a warm hand touched her shoulder and squeezed it. “I never once doubted your strength, Firanis. I was right when I said all those celestials you’d never let that curse consume you.”

Firanis nodded, feeling lighter somehow. There really was something about Ammon… “You made me say all that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Sometimes, Firanis, you’re the last person to know what you need for yourself.”

A sigh escaped her lips. “True.”

“And, right now, you needed to hear yourself say why you really are here.”

Somehow, Firanis realized she had forgotten how much Ammon Jerro understood her. Looking back, she really couldn’t believe how precarious their partnership had been in the beginning and how it had later blossomed to one of solid trust. She worked on the circle, remembering how they’d summoned Mephasm before and how, afterwards, Ammon had decided to train Firanis’s into better use her Eldritch powers, both in the Keep and in Arborea.

“Ammon?” she called.

“What?”

“When do you have to go to the Lower Planes?”

Ammon Jerro continue to draw, the chalk hysterically scratching the floor. “Some day. Are you done?”

“Yes.”

They got up. Firanis skirted the carefully drawn circle to take a place by Ammon Jerro’s side. “I want to know when.”

“And I’ve told you: some day,” he stubbornly repeated. “Why the sudden interest? Are you planning on dying and want me to adopt the girl?”

“No, but,” Firanis caught her tongue before she said anything she wasn’t planning on to and deftly changed the subject. “Would you?”

Ammon Jerro looked at her, a deep frown on his face. “ _What!_?”

“Will you stay with Ilwyn in case anything happens to me?”

His hell-blazed eyes bore into Firanis’s for a long time. Eventually, he sighed, shaking his head. “Whatever. I will. Can we summon her now?”

“Yes.” Firanis took a step backwards, giving Ammon Jerro the space he needed to perform the invocation. He began chanting – first softly, then louder and louder – and the smell of ancient magic flooded the air. Small fires burned, one in each of the ends of the pentagram inside the circle. The ground growled and quaked, and, from the fires rose stones, curling around each other in a cocoon.

When the stones imploded, only a small, comely woman, bound by the limits of the circle, remained. She flexed her long, leathery wings, dark eyes playfully shifting from Firanis to Ammon.

“So, we meet again,” she said in a low, seductive voice. “Just as I'd predicted.”

“Yes, you always did know, didn't you?” Firanis whispered. “My bloodline... you recognized it right there and then... Aren't I right, Blooden?”

The succubus let out a giggle. “How could I miss it?” Lines were etched in an otherwise smooth forehead and she _harrumphed_. “Your blood has the same stench his did; it was pretty impossible _not_ to notice it. I am, however, surprised by the company you keep. Is this why I haven’t seen you down at the Blood Wars, Ammon?”

“That, and more,” Ammon Jerro said.

“Typical. But I’m patient, Ammon. I know that, one day, you’ll eventually turn up. Now, please… However delicious I might be, I’m sure you didn’t summon me just to look.”

“No,” stated Firanis. “I need answers regarding my family.”

“Just that?” Blooden pouted.

“Yes. And you can start by telling me who gave me my eldritch magic.”

“You want to make sure it wasn’t Auril. You want to make sure her hold of you will end with the curse.” At the determination with which Firanis pressed her lips together, the corner of Blooden’s lips lifted in amusement. “Rest assured, her part in your fate is solely related to the curse. In fact reason you possess eldritch magic,” Blooden said, “Is because when your mother found out what would become of you, she came to me.” The succubus’s smile was sharpened when Firanis let her face drop in incredulity. “You know, for a sun elf, Esmerelle was quite devilish. One almost would have thought there was a pint of Lower Planar blood in her veins. She wanted to spare you from your fate and she wouldn’t stop at nothing to do it. That included striking a bargain with a demon.”

Firanis’s brows arched quizzically. “When?”

“Ammon Jerro summoned demons in his battle against the king of Shadows. I just happened to be among them.” Blooden walked around inside the circle as she spoke, slightly mellow. “In the midst of all that chaos, your mother recognized me. She was crying then and I could see she was desperate – and so the bargain was struck. Her life for something which would cover the whole the curse was digging into your soul. I gave you eldritch power and, just as luck would have it, she was pierced and died protecting you.”

“But if she recognized you…” Firanis bit the side of her lip. “You had met before. How? Esmerelle didn’t seem like the kind who would deal with demons.”

“Through Shemal – how else? Back then your father thought it best to keep you all together. That’s how Esmerelle saw what Shemal and Ethlinn had become and realized she had to find a way to save you lest you become like those two.”

“And you were there why?”

“Hush, pretty thing. Don’t be so impatient,” Blooden rebuked, a reprimanding finger pointed. “Now, as I was about to tell you, we succubi often invade the dreams of mortal men for sustenance. The more intense the dream, the better.

“Shemal… was so young when we first met but there was such _passion_ in him not even I could walk away from. He somehow lured me into his dreams and, later on, found a way to summon me in the flesh.

“You may say we realized we had a goal in common and thus, Aniel was born. With two parents like us, how could she be anything but beautiful?” Blooden grimaced but even when contorted so, her features were never ugly. “Yet when she was born, she was so repulsive! Rather than coming into the world like all succubi do, she came like a human. Small and scrawny and hairless... But you know what the worst about her was? Those big, wide eyes of hers that didn’t match her face! How could my daughter be so hideous?” Blooden was nearly shrieking now, holding her hands in front of her body to best express her disbelief. “So, I left her in Zakhara – how could I not?”

Throughout the conversation, Firanis had been struck speechless by surprise. Only now had she found the necessary concentration to blurt out, “Aniel… is _yours_?”

“Indeed she is. A shame to my line – I never really understood how she got so many men to fall in love with her.”

“Rekat would disagree,” stated Firanis.

“Rekat?”

“My brother. You probably know him as Matlal.”

 “Shrewd.” Blooden pointed an approving finger at Firanis. “At least you’ve figured out what that shadowy man really is. Unlike Shemal and Ethlinn. Both have been so deeply in denial towards the Matlal boy it’s amazing.” She took a hand to her hip, swaying it to one side. “There’s a reason as to why you said his name when you wanted to disagree with me. Why? Don’t tell me he’s in love with my progeny.”

Firanis’s gaze shifted nervously. “So what if he is?”

Blooden chuckled. “You mortals and love… I’d say it’s overrated but I’d be lying. Even to us, emotions are useful and love just happens to be the most useful of them all.”

“They found out about their… shared family members not so long ago,” Firanis whispered. “I just saw them together and neither of them was speaking to one another. They’re crushed by the news.”

“Are they? Perhaps. Or perhaps their love is strong enough to withstand a test even stronger than the one which Shemal wagered would vanquish it.” The succubus shrugged. “Either way, I gain nothing.”

“So you’re saying Shemal was going to use their ties against them?” Firanis frowned. “It makes no sense; he didn’t know who Rekat was.”

“No, but Matlal – Rekat, as you call him – knew himself all along. When he and Aniel learned about each other’s parentage, they broke. Just not for the reasons Shemal thought.”

“Which were?”

“He was prepared to lay a trap for Aniel which would sully her in the eyes of Rekat forever. After all, he had a child with his sister… do you think sleeping with his own daughter would pose a problem? And if you hardly managed to resist him, do you think Aniel would?”

“Had a child with his sister…” Firanis had gone over this with Viss and Ekeilma. “Yarija.”

“Yarija Thress, yes. Shemal had big plans for her but they went downhill when she didn’t come back a psion like he expected her to.” Blooden nonchalantly examined her nails. “Or maybe she did. She was smart enough to have fooled him. Truth is, Shemal, having been neglected the warrior he’d wished for, began placing stronger wards on her skin. She holds a part of his curse, and that is the reason why Shemal can better focus on the benefits it’s brought him.” She closed her eyes and smiled before licking her lips. “That savory heat of pure seduction… It would never be so strong hadn’t he passed the corruption on to Yarija.

“Come to think of it… his passing part of the curse onto Yarija is similar to your eldritch powers. Except that my help proved to be much more reliable than his methods.”

Firanis nodded. “Which was part of the point of this conversation.”

“Yes. But I do like to exercise my area of expertise, mind you. I haven’t talked about bloodlines in such a long while…” the succubus blew a strand of hair away from her face. “And you’re still missing a nephew.”

“Yes, also why I’ve summoned you, but… I don’t get it,” Firanis threw her arms about herself, clueless. “Why are you resisting?”

Blooden’s eyes closed halfway and she stubbornly pursed her lips. “To get back at Shemal – why else? He left me with an ugly thing I had to dispose of. How much of  a hindrance do you think that was?”

 _Never mind that you left a baby in the middle of the desert… It’s how much of a bother that was which ticks you off_ , Firanis thought, rolling her eyes. “Is the last one also Shemal’s?”

“No. He’s Ethlinn’s.”

Firanis shuddered. “Please don’t tell me the reason Rekat hated Ethlinn is because of that.”

“No. The thief has only had eyes for one woman and one woman only. Ethlinn’s child was with an outsider. Like your Ilwyn and Shemal’s Aniel.”

“So… who is it?”

Blooden smirked. “Brian. And he’s the reason you came to me, isn’t he? You wanted to know who the eighth one of you was so you know who to kill.”

“And you were only too pleased to reveal that.” Firanis turned to Ammon. “You can dismiss her how.”

“Happy to oblige,” said Ammon.

Blooden spread her wings as far as her magical cage would allow her. “I will see you soon, Ammon Jerro.” She furrowed her brow and accentuated her voice with determination. “Count on it.” Ammon chuckled dryly in reply before he began chanting once more. Firanis turned her back and walked away, leaving him to banish Blooden back to the Abyss.

Perhaps it was the silence; perhaps it was the loneliness. But when Firanis closed the door, her head begun pounding so strongly she had to lean against the wall for support. She raised a hand to her forehead and felt it sticky with cold sweat.

Breathing heavily, Firanis went back to her room; before she entered, she gathered herself so as not to startle the guards.

Once inside, she heard Ilwyn singing. It didn’t last long, however, for as soon as the girl noticed her mother, she did something entirely uncharacteristic of her: she clammed up. It confused Firanis and, after she had filled the enamel basin on the dressing table with water and washed her face, Firanis sat at Ilwyn’s side; she leaned back and looked up, the palms of her hands digging into the mattress, supporting her weight. She didn’t say anything for a while, choosing to watch Ilwyn, in an attempt to maintain normalcy – now sulkily – singing very lowly to her spider.

The girl paused and Firanis could say she was frowning without even looking; before Ilwyn could speak or begin singing again, Firanis declared. “The first time I met your father, he was singing.”

“I know he doesn’t sing anymore,” Ilwyn grumbled.

“No,” Firanis said. “I suppose his voice cracked – he really is horrible now; but back then? He was just like you.”

“I’m not anything like him,” the girl’s voice became a dark hiss. “I’m like you, mom. Not him.”

“You’re a _lot_ like him, Ilwyn,” Firanis contradicted. “Not everywhere, though. You have a gentle heart and a very bright soul; your father… eh.” Wrinkling her nose, she tilted her head to both sides, alternatively. “Not so much.”

“But you’re trying to save him,” Ilwyn stated; she was being so cold and distant… it hurt Firanis that her own daughter couldn’t trust her on this. “Save him even after he left you alone.”

“Your father… he did some bad things, Ilwyn,” Firanis gentled her tone, afraid her child would shun her should she speak too rashly. “Some very bad things. He said he did not care about them but deep down, they had embittered him to the point of no return. He pretended so much pretending became the real thing and when I saw that… All I wanted him to see was that not everyone hated him; that he was not doomed; that he stopped living in the world of pretending and began living the real thing, with his real emotions.

“And Ilwyn… if what it takes for that to happen is me saving him for a death sentence, then I’ll do it.”

Ilwyn let out a shaky breath. “But… why? He’s hurt you, mom, hurt you so bad…” Firanis saw from their shadows that Ilwyn’s body was wavering as well – much like her voice. “I saw the way he ripped your soul and the way it cried, mom! It still does so why—”

“Because he and I are so different we’re the same,” Firanis replied. “And we have lied so much to each other, we’re tired of it. He does not have a heart of gold and I know it; both he and I agree he is a really bad person. But Ilwyn, we don’t pretend otherwise; we have no illusions towards each other. And, right now, that’s what mom wants… Something that’s entirely true. Even if it means saving him so he can live away from us. So as long as he can live, I’ll be happy for him.”

“I still don’t understand.” Ilwyn sounded the sorriest Firanis had ever heard her.

“Just… trust mommy on this, will you?” Firanis asked.

Ilwyn gulped but, after some thoughtful seconds, she apprehensively nodded; Firanis’s heart melted along with her daughter’s understanding and, without warning, came back to her a memory from over eight years ago.

Zeeaire had told her pain would be inflicted upon her a thousandfold and Firanis had always thought it’d be because of the King of Shadows. Now… now she knew how _wrong_ she’d been all along.

Firanis took in a shaky breath. “Ilwyn?”

The girl looked at her, her brown eyes round with questions. “Yes, mom?”

“I need your help.”

 

A Greycloak had been sent to Aniel’s room not too long ago. With him, he had brought a request for Aniel to meet Amaya Shadowbreath in the Alchemy Laboratory. It seemed she wanted to discuss poisons with her and, frankly, who could be better than one of the specialists working for the Zhentarim?

However, once there, Aniel found herself unable to cross the entrance of the Laboratory. She had took her sweet time getting here and Amaya had apparently decided that, if she was going to wait, she was going to do so with her husband. Aniel saw the small elf with a vial in one hand, meticulously tilting it so that a single drop dripped into another vial resting on a stand above a fire.

Once she was done, her husband wrapped his arms around Amaya’s waist from behind. “No poison can ever touch that heart of yours,” he whispered against her ear.

She turned, an intimate smile spread across her lips. “You can’t poison what’s already rotten.”

He chuckled lowly, leaning his head down. “Have that much of a black heart, do you?”

“Very.” She placed her hand on Valen’s breastplate, right above his heart. “It’s still yours though, for as long as you want it to be.”

“Careful with the gifts you bestow, Amaya. You may never get them back.”

“That’s why it’s called a gift, isn’t it?”

He kissed her briefly, lightly. “And I am undeserving of it.”

“Untrue. You are the good man you’ve wanted to be all along. Unlike me,” Amaya softly murmured, resting her hand on the tiefling’s chest. “You’re more than I could ever have hoped for, Valen. People who’ve done the same things I have don’t often get this lucky.”

In a gentleness one would never have thought possible of him, Valen brushed his fingers across Amaya’s hair. “I love you.”

She tilted her head up and, wrapping her arms around his neck, pulled his lips down to hers with urgency and longing.  When they parted, Aniel noticed it was reluctantly, a feverish desire still burning of their gazes.

“These past eight years without you?” Amaya said. “The worst of my life.”

“Truest words you’ve ever spoken,” Valen agreed with a smile.

Aniel stepped back and slinked into the shadows when the tiefling, after one final look at the elf, kissed the top of his wife’s head and left her with as much hesitation as a mountain when it’s being split in half. Just before he opened the rest of the already slightly open door, Amaya called after him, “I love you too.”

The half-succubus had never seen a smile so true, so clear as the one Valen had as he walked right past her.

“You can come out now,” ordered Amaya.

Bashfully, Aniel did as she was told. She was almost ready to apologize for spying upon such an intimate scene, but the elven woman had already shrugged it off. “I need to know what poisons and antidotes Shemal has at his disposal.”

Staring at the moon elf, Aniel recalled something Torio had told her while discussing the current state of Neverwinter. If her memory served her right, this woman was Radrien Meliner’s sister, and together, they had been a deterrent force against Nasher. “I thought you were against him.”

Amaya puffed. “Mostly, but I’d take him over Shemal any day. If Neverwinter becomes another Luskan, Nasher knows that, so as long as my daughter’s involved, I’ll behave.”

The daughter… the daughter was the crazy girl who had, ages ago, sent Rekat into a fit. “I remember your daughter.”

Amaya swung her head, throwing her hair to the side. “And I remember you. We’re not here to discuss our previous encounters, though.

“Poison won’t work on him, if that’s what Nasher’s thinking,” warned Aniel.

“It’s not Shemal we want to poison – it’s his troops. We need to weaken his protection go get to him more easily. That’s where you,” Amaya pointed at Aniel. “Come in. I’m not risking preparing any that I know if I don’t know for sure if they’ll work or not. But you know what kind of poisons they’ve not gained immunity to. You’ve traded your services for freedom, and this is as a good time as any to apply them.”

That was only too true and, for once, Aniel was glad it was her poison – and not her bedroom – expertise that was being asked for. She stepped forward towards the working table where the laboratory setup lay. “I might know a few.”

 

 

There had never been much light in the prison. Not that it was bad; Bishop doubted he’d like to see whoever was in the cells near him, but still… the lack of light gave the place a gloomy, depressing feeling which was bound to deteriorate the minds of whoever spent too much time locked up in there.

He didn’t have much space to move; the chains around his ankles and wrists were only long enough to allow him to stretch his limbs. He reckoned it was probably because there had been way too many attacks between inmates and this was the only way to make sure none of them died before meeting their penance.

He sighed. What other choice had he got left anyway? Give the girl to Shemal and hope it was enough to save his hide for sleeping with Firanis? _No._ Somehow, it’d been unthinkable then; but even though it made a lot more sense now, he did not regret it.

That did not change he was royally fucked now. Neverwinter was not famous for forgiving deserters and he, apparently, was being accused of treason of the highest level – leaving your country while betraying it to the enemy right before the big siege.

Another train of thought was attached to the latter: that he’d never betrayed Neverwinter despite the looks of it. And the one person he’d walked out on… she’d forgiven him. It was stupid and naïve and foolish of Firanis – but it was just her thing. And he was glad; furious that she could be so unwise to give him another chance when he’d basically left her to die eight years ago, but also strangely _relieved_.

The door to his jail creaked open, calling him back to reality. A lone figure came in, her steps quick and urgent; she also exuded an almost imperceptible glow from her pale white skin and, when she stopped ahead of him, she squatted down to better look at him in the eye.

Bishop instantly knew what that look meant. “There’s a reason why they haven’t released me along with Aniel and Rekat,” he whispered. A strange numbness overtook his body. “They’ve sentenced me to death, haven’t they?”

“They have to grant you a trial before they kill you, Bishop,” said Firanis. “And I will do everything I can to save you.”

The scorn Bishop was so used to feeling came back almost as soon as Firanis had finished that sentence. “I don’t need you to.”

“No, but I do.” Firanis got back up. “I need you to infiltrate Luskan, remember?”

“Sure you do.”

Even though he was not staring at her, Bishop knew Firanis was probably pursing her lips, trying to keep herself in check. “Just be ready tomorrow morning and stay silent at the trial.”

Her steps as she left, like her voice, were too tightly controlled. She was mad at him, Bishop reckoned, and he could not blame her, but he didn’t really care for it. He was bound to die soon, anyway, and she’d be free of him her whole life. She hadn’t died in Merdelain and she surely wouldn’t die now.

Heroes never died after all.

 

 

Due to her encounter with Bishop, Firanis was still seething, and it didn’t get better when, at the bottom of the stairs which led out of the prison, were Casavir, Katriona and Elanee.

“What are you doing here, Firanis?” immediately asked a distressed Casavir. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Firanis looked away. “You know very well what I’m doing here.”

“Firanis...” It was Elanee who was speaking. “Do you really have to compromise any more of what’s left of your dignity for him?”

Firanis whipped her head to look at Elanee. Although the tone had been soft and light, Firanis knew it had been an accusation, and she was dumbfounded. “When will you ever understand?” she asked with a strained voice.

Elanee’s gaze and mouth softened. “When you help me understand,” she replied.

Firanis first kept her eyes on the druidess, but then shook her head, her eyes flashing. “It doesn’t matter.”

She took a step up, but Casavir grabbed her upper arm and spun her around. “ _Enough_!” he hissed, and the amount of contempt his voice held caused Firanis to step back. She had never seen him this angry. Never.

“We are at war, Firanis, and all you can think of is _him_!” Casavir went on, teeth gritted. “Have you forgotten what he’s done to you? Have you forgotten that he betrayed you and left you to _die_? Do you think he’s changed during the time he was working for the man who’s trying to destroy us? Do you think he’ll be grateful when you save him and stay? Men like him _never_ change, and you should know it!”

Elanee had a hand over her incredulous lips; Katriona was staring at Casavir, unable to act because she couldn’t figure out what had come over the paladin; Firanis stood immobile, taking all of Casavir’s shouts as stoically as she could. Once, she would have been able to discern what he was thinking just by looking at him; now, she was at a loss.

Casavir jerked Firanis’s arm harder. “Tell me, Firanis... Do you think he’s different when he was the one who let the Zhentarim in and out unnoticed to kidnap your daughter?”

At that, Firanis yanked her arm away, massaging the flesh Casavir had so viciously grabbed. She was tired. So tired of this, of that, of _everything_...

“I only loved him. I still do,” Firanis weakly admitted; she sounded almost defeated. “Don’t Clerics and Paladins preach that love is good?” Her voice rose to a hysterical level and she frantically threw her arms about herself in despair. “So tell me what’s wrong with me loving Bishop! Why is it so different from any other? Why?”

Tears stained her cheeks and her body was rocked by sobs.

“He betrayed you and will do so again,” Casavir said. “Are you so blind that you cannot see it?”

“It’s called _forgiveness_. Is it wrong as well? Tell me then if it is wrong to forgive someone!” Firanis hiccupped, but masked it with a loud inhalation.

“Then tell us, Firanis, why can’t you forgive yourself!”

Casavir’s ever so rare shouting momentarily cast Firanis into silence. Her mouth was open, but only slightly, to let out her heavy, angry breaths. “You only ask for forgiveness when you regret something you’ve done. I regret nothing.” She set her jaw stubbornly. “And I won’t have you have any regrets for me.”

And, in an angry rush of skirts, she left. When the sound of her footsteps faded, all Casavir could hear was the chiming melody of profound guilt. It was true that he should have controlled himself, but still, he had been right. Firanis’s crush on Bishop was hopeless and a liability to them all. He had been right to tell her such.

He had been right. He had. Then… why all the guilt?

“We keep on making judgements for her,” Elanee spoke softly, almost as if she was afraid her words would bruise the air. “And perhaps all we need to face is that, for better or for worse, Bishop makes Firanis happy.”

“You can’t be serious,” Casavir condoned.

Raising her voice, Elanee stated, “I am right. Firanis is a sensible person, Casavir, and I am sure that if she thought it’d be for the best, she’d have given up on Bishop long ago.”

“Her _feelings_ for him make her act foolishly!” the paladin insisted.

“Just as yours for her make you do so as well,” Katriona bitterly butted in, her assessment a razor-sharp blade sliding into the core of the argument.

“It’s true, Casavir. It’s the same with me, and Khelgar, and Neeshka, and Sand, and Grobnar. Ammon and Zhjaeve were the only two who could see, I think... The only two who could see Bishop was her salvation all along. For him, she never succumbed to her curse because she had to stay strong. She pushed her own suffering away so that he could lean on her and, in the end, it was that strength which kept her sane when anyone else would have cracked.”

Elanee marched down the corridor, and the last Casavir saw her, she was standing in front of Bishop’s cell, desolated.

“I was right,” Casavir whispered, his eyes seeking Katriona’s for consolation. “I _am_ right, and still... Why do they condemn me?”

“Because you are _not_ right, Casavir. Firanis is.” Katriona stomped her foot down aggressively. “She loves Bishop with all her heart, and you people think it’s easy, when, quite frankly, it’s probably the most difficult thing she’s ever done. It’s because, like Elanee said, you keep on making judgements for her while dismissing her feelings as superficial and childish when they are not.  She’s brave enough to confess to everything, she’s sincere enough to have no regrets... And you’re so self-absorbed won’t believe her!”

“You don’t know how much it hurts me to see her like that, Katriona. You don’t know how it is to care for someone for so long while knowing the one person she wants is not you, but a vile, despicable man who left her to die!” 

“I don’t know?” Katriona let her arms drop. “ _I don’t know_?” she repeated her previous words with more emphasis, gesticulating hopelessly. “You think you’re the only one who has cared for someone and known for the whole time that person doesn’t give a shit about them? Do you?

“I have cared for you for _years_. You claim it’s so bad to have been with Firanis all this time, but at least you knew she was alive? And me? I thought you were dead and still I kept on caring for you, feeding some sort of sick hope that you would one day return. And when you do, what do I get? _Nothing_. I have always been here and you still refuse to see me!”

How... How could he have not known? Firanis... she had known he was in love with her the whole time, but had chosen to ignore it in the hopes that, perhaps, Casavir would move on. But this... Katriona had cared for him for years and Casavir had not even _noticed_ it, and that made his crimes so much worse than Firanis’s had ever been.

He reached out to touch Katriona’s cheek. “Katriona... I never knew.”

Katriona adamantly slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me. And don’t pity me, Casavir. The last thing I want from you is _pity_.”

Casavir was speechless and, because of that, Katriona only had more fuel to her fire. “I thought I’d keep on waiting for you to finally realize my feelings for you, but like you said, it’s war, and any of us could die. So there you have it.” And, without a word more, she briskly walked down the corridor and joined Elanee in Bishop’s cell.

Casavir touched his forehead to the cold stone wall, hoping it would cool him down. It didn’t. Katriona’s words were still echoing on his mind, and he wondered if Firanis had been able to forget the words Bishop had said in the Vale of Merdelain as well. He wondered if they would disappear with time, or even just dim.

When Casavir became aware that they wouldn’t, he realized he was wrong about Firanis.

He had been wrong all along.

 

 

Tyavain’s nearly inaudible voice stopped her thoughts – it was a wonder how such a quiet thing managed to do so. “Everything has a counterpart, something that, when joined with it, will make both of them a whole. That’s what’s called the duality of all things and that’s what makes everything fair.”

Amianna took a sip from her still steaming tea before replying. “It’s hard to see fairness in the Multiverse when every odd and every person appear to be against you.”

“I don’t think so,” Tyavain disagreed. “If Firanis didn’t have it all against her, she wouldn’t have a chance of succeeding.”

“You certainly are concerned about her success.” Amianna’s hands closed around the mug for warmth. “Have you come to care about her that much?”

“Maybe.” Tyavain sat back against the table. “But the Knower of Places said I had to see the end of Firanis’s journey to find the beginning of mine. For that, I’m glad you’ve provided her with a way of ending the curse.”

“And when you find your path… What will you do?”

“I’ll follow it,” Tyavain simply responded. “What else there is to do?”

“You will leave us again, then,” said Amianna. “Tell me, Tyavain, before you leave, will you go visit Julian?”

Tyavain frowned, intertwining her arms. “If I went back to Baldur’s Gate, maybe, but not on purpose. Why?”

“Why go visit Julian, Tyavain?” her aunt’s voice wasn’t more than a whisper, sad and disappointed. “You left the boy alone when you went to the Lower Planes. He was your friend – your _best_ friend – and you left him to deal with your absence.”

“You don’t know—”

“I _do_ know, Tyavain. I was there the moment the portal closed. Julian was devastated.”

Tyavain looked down, a blush of embarrassment tingeing her cheeks. “I told him it’d be okay; I told him not to cry.”

In a cutting motion, her aunt thrust the arms to her sides. “For Beshaba’s ill luck, girl! The boy loved you!”

The tiefling bit down her lip, closing her eyes before taking in a deep breath. Gods, it hurt so much to think of Julian now… why? He had been her dearest friend, her beloved companion; yet now she felt a pang of regret at the memory of his smiling face and at the way it had twisted when she’d been told she had to leave. Her lips trembled before the words sprang free from them. “I know he did, aunt,” Tyavain timidly admitted. “And if things had been different Julian would undoubtedly have come to be my one true love; but the Gods were not willing to make it easy for me and Julian…” Tears painfully teased her eyes, mocking her control; still, Tyavain held them back and kept her voice from wavering. “He is not for me; I’ve done nothing to deserve him.”

Amianna pursed her lips. “That’s no excuse for at least not paying him a visit when you’re done. He wants to see you and make sure you’re well.”

“And that isn’t a reason?” Tyavain laughed bitterly, sharply. “Oh, Aunt, only the Gods know how I dreamed of Julian Corthala and of the future we might’ve had together; he dreamed too, I know. I saw it in his true name, embedded like sweet liquor on his being. We dreamed, Aunt and we dreamed strongly. We still do. And our dreams will be the truest ones because they’ll remain that - a dream that comes true is not a real dream and ours shall never know reality.

“And in reality, aunt… Julian and I, we won’t be together, forever and ever and we’ll remember what we were supposed to _truly_ be every single day; we’ll cry over that and what could never be. Our agony shall be phantom because we’ll regret things that have never – and will never – happen.

“Julian… Our dream ended long ago. It ended before it even began.”

“You can’t know that for sure.” Amianna drank some more of her tea. “And don’t lie to me and say you know everything when I know that, when it comes to yourself, you don’t know anything.”

Tyavain calmly stared at her aunt, trying to absorb what she’d said. It was typical of her aunt to be rigid with her – she was a much more strict parent than Tyavain’s mother ever would be, - and Tyavain had been raised to take her a learning approach to her aunt’s reprimands rather than an emotional one.

Still, this particular conversation had rung something deep in Tyavain, stirring up the voices to a loud cacophony. Tyavain leaned away from the table and walked away. Whilst she did so, her aunt didn’t even look at her and kept to her tea and her notes. If Tyavain didn’t know better, she would have thought Amianna hadn’t even noticed she was gone.

For a good time, Tyavain just walked pointlessly and, until she got there, she had no idea where she was going. In hindsight, she never would have thought she would end up here someday, but there she was, in the only place she felt safe nowadays.

She opened the door and, with steps as light as a feather, sat against the wall. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but at one point, the door opened again, allowing a beam of light to pass through.

For a moment, Nevalle was aghast, for at the corner of his room, was Tyavain, sobbing lightly. Her eyes were ajar, but he could see they were light blue, showing that the taints were not holding her captive. Nevalle moved closer, but did not touch her; he couldn’t bring himself to do so, at least not yet, not when the images of Tyavain torturing the Halfling still burned so brightly in his mind. Instead, he called out her name, like he had at the tower, hoping his voice would reach her through the pain.

“Tyavain…”

Their eyes met; she sniffed loudly before looking away. “Once upon a time…” Tyavain’s voice was weak, but it filled the room nonetheless. “There was a girl who loved a deva and a deva who loved a girl.” Her body shook severely, as if she was keeping something in check. “And now, the girl is no longer a girl, and the deva is no more.”

Tyavain hugged her knees. “The voices grew so loud… they took over my body; some screamed for me to start with the legs and the others told me to start by gouging her eyes out. But they all screamed _pain_. And even though I made her scream, I still think that her pain was nothing when compared to _mine_!” She curled up into a ball to hide her head from him, and her muffled voice grew even lower. “But you know what made me stop? When made her rip her cheek open, she took a look at you with the only eye she had, as if to ask you to stop me; then I made her scoop the eye out, but as I did so, I followed her gaze and it ended up on you, Sir Nevalle.”

She sniffed again. “You were _afraid_ of fixing your eyes on me, but you couldn’t look away from her. You watched as she took out her eye, your mouth hanging open in disgust and horror, your gaze shimmering with repulsion… they muted my voice. Suddenly, her true name was out of my grasp, as was truespeak, _just because I felt you were scared of me_!”

Nevalle bit into his lip, remembering when he’d seen her for the first time, the day Firanis had been made Knight. Tyavain had been so young back then and yet she’d already been fighting the urges of the Blood War taint. When she returned from Empyrea with Firanis, she was still a girl, but she’d acted sane all the time, without screaming or shouting of falling on her knees and grasping her head, like she had eight years ago; plus she spoke with a wisdom and intelligence that transpired girls of her age – it was as if the Taint had been lifted from her. But now he could see that she had only suppressed it and, the moment she saw one of her dearest people vanish, driven against his will by a _binding_ , her control had lapsed and the taint had emerged.

Had that been… the _real_ Tyavain?

Still, even though he forced himself to immediately deny that thought, it took Nevalle a great effort to brush her hair behind her pointy ears; he dawdled for moments, still unsure, before placing an arm where her knees bent and circling her back with the other to lift her up. For a while, she sobbed harder, hitting his chest along with her tears, but her cries naturally subsided and he set her down on the bed.

When her hands, tired and cranky, led her to finally stop, Tyavain was left with nothing.

 “I don’t know why I’m here,” she confessed in a rough voice. “You don’t trust me. No one does, and yet, I’m here. I feel safe here, and I don’t know why. Why?”

Nevalle brushed her forehead with his thumb. He was not sure about which question he was answering; not that it mattered. The response was the same anyhow.

“I don’t know,” said Nevalle.

“Neither do I.” Tyavain hiccupped. “Neither do I.”

 

 

That morning, Bishop woke up with an impending feeling that he was doomed. Although it had seemed impossible, he actually had expected Firanis to bail him out. She had failed to do so and now all Bishop had was a trial which would, most likely, be nothing but a charade.

Not very far away, someone cleared his throat, drawing Bishop’s attention in that direction. “You? Why are _you_ here?” Bishop asked, annoyed.

Sand chuckled. “Because someone we know wants me to,” he replied. “Be thankful I actually think of her as a friend, however strange it might be to you.”

Sudden realization hit Bishop like a rock. “You’re defending me.”

“Unfortunately, I was asked to,” Sand confirmed. “And given the state Firanis is in, I couldn’t refuse her.”

Bishop chuckled. The truth was bitter than he had imagined it would be. “So she lied. She’s not really helping me, is she?”

“Please.” Sand rolled his eyes. “Stop floundering in self-pity just because not everything is the way you want it to be.” He looked to his side. “ _Finally_.”

It was Neeshka who had arrived, and she was sporting some of the worst puffy eyes Bishop had ever seen. “It’s early, okay? You don’t want to piss me off.” 

“Sure I don’t,” Sand casually remarked. “I just want to get this over with as much as you do.”

“Right.”

A guard, Neeshka and Sand approached Bishop, and they both began working on the locks chaining him to the wall. Once they were done, Bishop was forced to a standing position by the guard.

“Aw, you’re not getting the cuffs off of my wrists?” Bishop sourly asked.

“The chafing does you good,” Neeshka retorted before turning to Sand. “Please let them sentence him to death again.”

The moon elf sighed. “I was going to ask Firanis to do that, but Elanee gave me the look.”

The tiefling whistled. “She hadn’t given us the look in ages.”

“Well, she did last night.” Sand nodded towards the exit. “Let’s get him to the trial.”

The guard pushed Bishop and the ranger decided to comply. He had little choice but to go to Nasher’s mock trial and… He stole a look at both Sand and Neeshka, who had mentioned Elanee’s look. Bishop remembered it, as he had, for several times, been on the receiving end of it. The wood elf viewed Firanis as a child and whenever she thought one of them was going to hurt Firanis, she would give them the deadliest, most motherly look Bishop knew.

So, when Elanee had stood in front of his cell last night, Bishop had guessed she had come all the way down there to give him that famed look. All he’d gotten from her, however, had been nothing but admissions of guilt and misery. It had sown confusion in him – confusion that only increased when Katriona followed and told him she would make sure his trial would be fair.

Bishop had not believed it then. He still didn’t quite believe it now, as he stood next to Sand, behind the defendant’s desk. Sand talked and talked and talked, and the jury ad Nasher listened with a look of pained boredom. This was just like the trial Firanis had gone through, years ago, except that not it was he who stood between life and death.

Bishop gulped.

He was a dead man.

 

 

“Are you sure about this, Firanis?” asked Tyavain.

Firanis’s eyes moved around. In a circle, she stood with Rekat, Aniel, Yarija, Ilwyn and Tyavain, all of their faces painted with strong determination. They had all agreed to her plan and she was sure none of them would back out now – and neither would she.

Her reply was a solid yes. They went over the details of what was about to transpire and, once they were ready, they stepped back.

Firanis felt little besides Ilwyn’s tight grip on her hand. Her daughter was clearly scared, but if it was as Rekat had said, she, along with Tyavain, were needed for this to work.

First, it was Aniel who begun dancing.

Firanis had only heard of it through Bishop and now that she was witnessing Aniel’s exquisite rhythm and steps, she had to admit that Bishop had not even come close to describing the wonder and the magnificence of the half-succubus’s movements. Aniel had always been impossibly good-looking in Firanis’s eyes, but now, as she saw her dance, Firanis had the sensation that she was looking at beauty personified.

With a thrust of Aniel’s hip, Firanis felt a small tingling, like millions of ants travelling across her skin. Aniel stepped forward in a quick shimmy and the tingling intensified to the point Firanis’s thought her skin was coming off. She looked to the side, at Yarija, and saw that it wasn’t the skin that was being separated from their body, but something utterly vile.

It was the curse, physically assuming the form of a viscous, black liquid that sheathed their skin. Ilwyn’s soft voice, quaky and reticent, joined by Tyavain’s more strong and resolute utterances, hummed in Firanis’s ears, first quiet and then majestic.

With a wave of her arms, a couple of fans materialized into Aniel’s hands. She opened them with a twist, then closed them again by clapping the fans against each other. Turn, twist, open, clap, close. The shadows inside them moved when Aniel threw the fans in the air and caught them, never once breaking the flawless harmony of the dance.

The shadows rose and, for a moment, Firanis felt nothing but the clear happiness of an uncontaminated soul. There was no cold, no darkness, nothing trying to eat her up from the inside. There was just peace, truth, and nothing else.

However, Firanis’s small moment of freedom lasted less than a moment. Ilwyn and Tyavain’s chanting rose and, when she looked at Aniel, she saw her moving towards her, fans twirling and undulating along with her. She locked eyes with Firanis, who nodded to ascertain her certainty.

Aniel brought her arms up, then forward, and the shadows of the curse loomed above her. Aniel breathed heavily and, for a split second, there was only silence. Then, she brought the fans together with a violent _crack_ and the shadows moved.

Firanis had been expecting to feel unparallel pain, yet, all she did feel for a while was the strange sensation of something gooey worming its way into skin. It was then replaced by a constricting of her throat and a difficulty to breathe. Her knees trembled before they gave up. She was crawling on the floor, retching what little she had gotten into her stomach that day. She heard screaming from very far away, and she knew someone was tilting her head up – but it wasn’t because she felt it, but because there was no way she could raise it. Both her tact and strength had deserted her.

The last thing Firanis saw before she lost consciousness was the darkest of darknesses, one in which there wasn’t a single speck of light to fight off all the crushing despair.

 


	19. Symphony: Hunger, War, Release

´

**_Symphony_ **

****

_“It is done. She is no longer yours.”_

**Nineteen**

_Hunger_

_War_

_Release_

 

 

When Yarija looked into the mirror, she hardly recognized herself. She touched her face, unable to believe what she was seeing. Her skin was different; while Yarija was still pale, it was healthily so and her cheeks were now rosy, her lips pink and full and there were no dark circles under the eyes; her hair, too, was no longer the bland orange it’d been hours before but a vivid, bright red. Her eyes, too, had changed from an unnatural yellow to a rich amber, and they no longer were as alienating.

Aniel and Rekat, too, were different. The half-succubus was still as beautiful as she’d ever been, but when she spoke or moved, she no longer riled up emotions of overwhelming want and need. And Rekat… Rekat wasn’t as easy to look over anymore, and Yarija could see that it was unsettling him. And as for Ilwyn… Physically, Ilwyn seemed unaffected by the whole ordeal, and Yarija supposed it was because she didn’t know the girl well enough to ascertain what had changed.

The same could not be said of her emotional side, however.

Yarija quietly observed Ilwyn clinging on to Firanis, tears raining down her cheeks. It was no wonder that the girl was so upset; after all, the sight of Firanis didn’t paint a pretty picture.

Yarija would say Firanis looked awful, but it would be a blatant understatement. Gone was the translucent pallor of her complexion and gone was the light which emanated from her body. Firanis’s skin was soggy, dull, and covered by red spots, some of which were bloated. Her breathing was heavy and ragged and she would, once in a while, start coughing.

At the moment, Firanis looked more like a cadaver than a living person; and, looking at Tyavain, Aniel and Rekat, Yarija knew that they were thinking exactly the same thing she was, but because Ilwyn was there, no one dared to voice their thoughts.

Someone rapped on the door before they opened it. The woof elf Yarija knew as Elanee, closely followed by Katriona, came inside; she was uneasy at first, but when the wood elf’s eyes fell on Firanis, all that seemed to command her was urgency. She hurriedly went to stand at the aasimar’s side, touching Firanis’s slumbering form here and there, examining her. Katriona alternatively flicked her gaze from Yarija to Aniel to Rekat, only stopping when it fell on Tyavain.

“Please get Ilwyn out of here,” said Elanee. Ilwyn looked at the elf, mouth gaping, and eyes filling up with newly formed tears. “No!” Ilwyn screeched, heartbroken. She tightly held on to her mother, arms locked around Firanis’s waist. Ilwyn’s efforts to stay there proved to be fruitless, for Katriona pried the girl’s arms away from her mother nonetheless. Kicking and screaming her protests, Ilwyn was handed to a guard outside. The girl was still shrieking from the top of her lungs, and using ever remnant of her strength to escape the guard’s solid hold when Katriona closed the door.

With Ilwyn out of the room, Elanee wasted no time. “Just _what exactly_ have you done to her?” she angrily inquired. “After she freed you from prison, this is how you repay her? By taking what little health she had left?”

“We did what she asked,” Rekat softly interrupted. “She told us she would be able to handle it.”

“Well, whatever she told you, she was lying!” Elanee was screaming now, and was furiously gesticulating as though she wanted to say something but was unable to put it into words.

“Elanee?” Katriona called. “Elanee, what’s happening?”

The druidess took her hands to the sides of her head, and pulled at her hair. “She looks like she’s got the plague and her skin’s decaying, that’s what’s happening!”

“She told us she could handle it,” said Yarija.

Elanee was voracious. “Handle _what_?”

“Our parts of the curse,” replied Yarija. Elanee’s hands dropped in disbelief. She blinked, very fast, and albeit  her mouth was moving, she wasn’t able to shape any words.

“I think it’s very clear that she lied,” Tyavain declared with certainty. “The amount of energy transferred into her is colossal and, as a result, her body is deteriorating at a faster pace than it ever would. She has a couple of days left – maybe even less.”

“Well, if you know so much, then why did you help her do _this_?” Elanee sneered accusingly.

“It was _her_ choice,” Rekat hissed. “We didn’t know this would happen when we agreed to it; Firanis did and still, she wanted this.”

Tyavain shrugged blithely. “That’s pretty much it. Firanis wanted – or better, she needed - to do it.” She removed the small towel from Firanis’s forehead and, after dipping it into the basin, dabbed Firanis’s skin with it. “In truth, I was expecting to diminish the strength of the curse in the process… I had seen something like that before. It was almost the same as when I expelled the taints off of my parents.”

“Almost,” Katriona pointed out.

“Yes. I knew what I was dealing with when it came to my parents, so I could vanquish the taints right there and then.” The tiefling’s expression became colored with apprehension and when she continued, her tone was both confuse and thoughtful. “This, I didn’t know, and when everything merged and plummeted into Firanis… it was so powerful and shattering I couldn’t even begin to understand it, much less weaken it.”

“And now she’s dying,” Elanee scathingly spat.

“I was already dying before.”

Everyone looked down at Firanis, who had finally opened her eyes, even if only slightly. Her breathing was now raspier and seemed to demand a greater effort from her part than it did while she’d been sleeping. “Has Bishop’s trial ended?” Firanis asked.

“No,” Elanee said. “And don’t even think you’re going there.”

“But I have to.” Her voice too rough, Firanis cleared her throat. “You know I have to.”

“Sadly, I do.” Elanee was almost resentful as she gave Katriona room to help Firanis out of bed. “Just don’t overdo it.”

Katriona slipped a hand around Firanis’s waist, and the aasimar put an arm over the knight’s shoulders. Katriona lifted her off the bed and, when Firanis’s legs wobbled, she kept her from falling. It took Firanis a while to regain her balance and be able to just stand on her own.

“Yarija, Rekat, Aniel,” she said. “While I get Bishop out of this mess, please start working on a plan that covers what we need to do inside Luskan. I will add my share to it later. Katriona, I need you to help me get there. I can stand on my feet, but I’m afraid my head will spin too much if I try to walk alone.”

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Elanee asked, her concern almost palpable.

“I just need to get used to the curse, that’s all.” Firanis leaned against Katriona before nodding towards the door. “Let go.”

“And to think Nevalle was defending how level-headed you usually are,” Katriona sighed.

“Nevalle was defending me?” Firanis sounded slightly happy. “How cute.”

“We were with you at the Keep, Firanis, and we didn’t believe your were bluffing when you said you needed Bishop to infiltrate Luskan because you were running out of time. Nasher doesn’t want to admit you’re the only one who can touch Shemal. I do, and if what you need to defeat Shemal is Bishop…” Katriona nonchalantly bit her upper lip. “So as long as you get the job done, I could care less.”

Firanis misplaced a foot and stumbled. Katriona caught her arm and steadied her. Firanis was still sweating, and somehow, her skin looked worse than it had five minutes earlier. She was, however, the most resolute Katriona had ever seen her and given the circumstances, it could only warrant Firanis more credit.

“Well, let’s just hope Nasher has had a change of heart, then.”

 

 

From the sunset outside the Castle’s windows, Bishop could guarantee that he and everyone else in this room had been listening to Sand talking for at least six hours. It was absurd how a single five-foot creature could talk for so long without growing tired of the sound of his own voice. Bishop remembered the same had almost happened when he’d been advocating for Firanis in her trial. However, Firanis had displayed an enormous amount of good sense and had taken the defense in her own hands, and kept Sand to just advising her before each witness; but then again, Firanis did it because she _could_. Given his oh-so-friendly personality, there was no way Bishop could have done the same.

And clearly, she wasn’t interested in doing it for him, either. She had promised she would come and even though most of him never really believed she would, there had been a little resistance to that feeling in his heart. It was an insignificant amount of himself, true, but it was there, and it had hoped she would come. It was hoping for that still.

He breathed in relief when he noticed Sand was drawing to a close.  “All that said and done, I don’t believe Bishop should be condemned for treason – not when he actually crippled Garius’ side by startlingly deserting him,” Sand was saying, but was cut off by the loud sound of doors being opened and slow, heavy footfalls. Bishop’s breath caught when _her_ smell of orange lilies and marigolds reached his nose coupled with the scent of rotting flesh and his heart stopped when he saw Firanis – all clad in black robes, clinging onto her body because sweat – coming closer and closer to the center of the room, supported by Katriona all the while.

It was as though Firanis couldn’t quite walk by herself and, the closer they came the more Bishop noticed there was indeed something terribly wrong with her. Firanis’s skin was covered in spots of a red so dark they were almost black, and some of them – particularly one at the side of her neck and some others on her arms – were frighteningly swollen. Her eyes, as she scanned the room, were bloodshot and puffy, and her puckered lips were almost as white as the marble on the walls.

“I’m Firanis Hlaetlarn, Knight of the Nine and I’d like to lay my witness on this matter.” For all her ailing looks, Firanis’s tone was oddly cool, focused and quiet.

Nasher inspected the newcomer’s firm stance for long moments before squinting. “What’s happened to you?”

Firanis turned her head to the side and, after covering her mouth, coughed. She tried to keep her back very straight afterwards as a measure to regain her composure. “My health is failing me, my Lord, and I’m growing weaker by the minute.”

“Whatever sickness is afflicting you, I don’t think it could progress quite so quickly.”

“It’s the curse I told you about – the one that binds Shemal and myself.” Firanis lifted her chin and, for a moment, her cheeks were flushed with color. “I took Rekat, Aniel, Yarija’s and Ilwyn’s parts of the curse into myself and to hold so much of the curse is corroding my body and soul from within.”

Nasher took a hand to his chin, which he scratched. “So you truly are-”

“Yes. Which is why I’d appreciate we get this out of the way as quickly as possible.”

“Is she the witness you had asked for?” Nasher asked Sand.

Bishop, who had had his sight quizzically set on the aasimar again, frowned. Next to him, Sand was speaking, his dry, sarcastic tone gone. “I’m sorry. Firanis was my only witness and since I hadn’t been counting on her tardiness, I carried on; she’s here now, so if you’d be so kind, my _lord_ …”

“Yes. If you’d be so kind.” Firanis echoed, slightly bending down her knees in a formal appreciation. “I’d like to expose my point of view as to why Bishop should be not killed for his betrayal.”

The ruler of Neverwinter inclined his head forward. “Speak, then.”

“Thank you,” Firanis said. “I know some people say my judgment of Bishop’s character is flawed. Mostly, they are right. But in this case… My Lord, you want to execute this man for betraying this country – and I do not believe he is guilty of that crime. Of many others, yes, but not of this particular one.”

“Your judgment _is_ flawed, Firanis,” said the Prosecutor, whose name was Kale Ceilten. Up until this day, Bishop had never laid eyes on the half-elven man, but Kale had appeared to have him under inspection for a long time. He had known every little detail of what had happened at Crossroad Keep which, considering the time he’d had to make a case against Bishop, was nothing sort of impressive. “You are clearly weakened and we can only assume you are no longer capable of making discernments when it comes to one’s character as you were in the past.”

Firanis changed her footing, silently evaluating the prosecutor. Beside the aasimar, Katriona’s expression of worry became more accentuated. She whispered something to Firanis, who nodded. “For someone I’ve never met, you appear to know a great deal about me, Prosecutor Kale.”

“I know the facts, lady Firanis. You were invaluable during the second War of Shadow. Everyone who was in Crossroad Keep with you respected your skills – but almost all of them believed that when it came to Bishop, you wouldn’t believe what your rational side told you.” He smirked. “Some would even say you wanted to save him at all costs and refused to believe it couldn’t be done.” 

“Ostensibly, they are right. I did have a lapse of judgment, but it was not where people believed. I did want to save Bishop, but it was wrong of me to want to do so by changing him. People do not change – not unless they want to. _That_ was where I erred.” Firanis looked at him and even through all the fatigue clouding her eyes, Bishop could understand this was her way of explaining what she had hoped for eight years ago. He had been right about that – she _had_ tried to change him. All this time, Bishop had wanted Firanis to admit to that; now that she had… there was no glow of victory, no flame of glory. There was just emptiness because deep down, Bishop knew her intentions had been good. He could not blame her for that. He could not blame her when he could see it had been all the innocence she had back then talking; he could not blame her when he knew this was her apologizing to him.

“So you admit you were wrong.”

“I do – but not where you say I was. I wasn’t wrong to believe in Bishop – and could I go back, I would have done the same.”

“You would endanger Neverwinter again?” Kale smiled as though he had caught Firanis in a trap. “For him? For someone you said would never change?”

“I didn’t say that. I said people don’t change for anyone but for themselves.” Firanis breathed deeply. “And Neverwinter was saved. I made sure of that.”

“Yes, but imagine the moment this man gets free - because of the misplaced faith you have put in him, - he runs and rats our plans out to Shemal. Would you be able to save Neverwinter again now that you’re quickly crumbling before our eyes? What will happen to us if we’re conquered because of a snitch we let go just because you refuse to believe he will betray us again? We all have to make sacrifices and so do you!”

“You’re all about hypothesis regarding Bishop that you seem to be forgetting one thing,” Firanis angrily hissed. “ _I_ was the one who went to Luskan! _I_ gave myself away so _no one_ would attack this goddamned place. _I_ saw things in Luskan that would chill the hardest man to the bone and yet I _endured_ _everything_ because it was the only way Shemal would stay away!” She breathed in, almost frenetically. “You people _dare_ to point your fingers at me?” Firanis shook her head in disbelief, the loose hairs of her fringe licking her pale skin like flames. “Don’t even begin to mention your sacrifices when you don’t know any of mine.”

Kale’s face was lined with wrinkles of dissatisfaction. “And yet, you fled Luskan, giving us nothing but a small margin of time to prepare for a full-blown invasion.”

Firanis shook off Katriona’s grip and, slowly, approached Kale’s stand. “Then try me for treason. Put me on Bishop’s place and try me because I fled Luskan to expose an infiltrated agent who had been leaking information for years.”

Kale loomed down on Firanis, his face just inches away from hers. “That is what you want us to believe. Lenya took your daughter, didn’t she? The only reason you came back was to save Ilwyn – and not to expose Lenya.”

Firanis brought her eyebrows down, and her voice was as raspy as sand. “So what, you are going to blame me for killing two birds with one stone?”

“Enough!” Nasher interrupted them. “Kale, we’re not here to question Lady Firanis on her actions. She _did_ expose a Zhentarim spy and I and the Council have come to the conclusion it was enough of a reason to flee Luskan.”

“But my Lord, when it comes to this man she refuses to see the truth!” Kale exclaimed.

“Oh please!” Firanis threw her arms about herself, but she quickly had to reach for the wooden stand for support. “While I was there, Bishop was my link to sanity, to the life which I once had! He was one of the few things which kept me from losing focus – but even then, when it came to choosing between him and fleeing that place, I still chose to go. I chose to go even though I knew Shemal would kill him for it! I left him there to die but no one seems to take that into account because he’s still alive and I’m fighting to keep him that way!”

Bishop cringed. He hated to admit it, but to hear Firanis say that she left him in Luskan even though she knew he would probably die there… it hurt. He resented her a little bit for it, but then again… he had left her to die in the Vale of Merdelain as well. In a way, there were even.

Firanis was now gasping heavily for breath and after a while, she managed to go on. “And before you say anything.. Why I can’t save one of the people who got me out of that hell here? Why is it such a great price for Neverwinter to pay when Bishop was one of the reasons which allowed me to warn you about Lenya?”

“You don’t understand,” Kale said. “There are more factors to take into account.”

“Like a mob?”

Firanis looked at the door, where Radrien, all clad in black, was standing.

Nasher sighed as though he was expecting her. “Radrien. Your presence—”

“Skip the pleasantries, Nasher,” the woman snarled. “Or Tyr will punish you for lying under judgment.”

Only the sound of the half-elf’s footsteps was heard as she stepped further into the room, her eyes never leaving Nasher’s. Firanis’s jaw dropped at how powerful and elegant the woman looked at the same time, with her raven black hair billowing behind her and features traced in lines of challenge.

“So, will you?” Radrien asked, squinting at Nasher. “Will you risk another Aribeth just to appease a _mob_?” she let out a short, presumptuous laugh. “Don’t you think the cost will be much higher if _she_ turns against you like Aribeth did?”

“Treason is a crime of the highest order, Radrien. You know that,” Nasher hissed.

Firanis was tired. They just kept assuming it was Neverwinter who had been betrayed, and it was all they seemed to take into account. She was tired, so tired, that she lost her patience and decided to play the only card she had left. “For the Gods’ sake, his betrayal was not against Neverwinter! What he did was not because he wished particular harm to befall your country! His disloyalty, it was…” Firanis stuttered in her shouts; she took a hand to her heart and looked down at the floor, her voice a whisper when she said. “It was directed to _me_. I cannot be arrogant enough to tell you with certainty why Bishop betrayed me. He never told me such; but I can say that what happened was my fault and mine alone.”

“If it’s like that, then his betraying you nearly resulted in the fall of Neverwinter!” Nasher slammed his fist against the arm of the throne; Firanis got the feeling that his composure was nearly snapping and was surprised to know that she didn’t really care.

“If you betray someone,” Radrien spoke. “No one cares; _you_ didn’t care when _you_ betrayed your paladin’s feelings; _you_ didn’t care when you betrayed _your_ spymaster by forcing him to choose between his city and someone he loved. By Sehanine, people betray each other _every day_ and no one is sentenced to death for it, even though those betrayals almost always result in the doom of something, whether it’s a city, a person or a mere _feeling_.”

“Radrien, you’re not being concise−”

“The hells I’m not!” the half-elf screamed. “None of your citizens even came close to feel how the person his betrayal really did harm to felt; Firanis did. How can _your_ city not give this man a chance to prove he’s changed when the one who was hurt the most by him has so clearly and openly forgiven him already?”

Radrien stopped to breathe in; Firanis closed her eyes and did the same. She had no idea as to why the elf was doing this, but she was glad she was. Radrien was proving to be an invaluable help.

Firanis tried to straighten her back, but her legs caved in. She knew that if she used her magic she could stand by herself, but she was afraid of draining it, as she had been doing these past eight years. She needed all her strength to confront Shemal and so, without magic, it was now very hard for her to stand straight, even while grasping the stand. Katriona seemed to understand her plight, for she quickly appeared at Firanis’s side and helped her stand. Firanis covered her mouth and coughed, her mouth tainted by a metallic taste; when she withdrew her hand, she was not at all surprised to see it covered in blood.

“You have to rest, Firanis,” Katriona admonished.

“No,” the aasimar stubbornly defied. “I want to see this through.”

“You were the only one to expose any sort of weakness in Shemal,” Katriona calmly said. “So whatever hope we have in defeating him, it lie with you – and I’m very certain that if you keep pushing yourself like this, you will not see anything through. Not this trial, and certainly not the war.” She then spoke to Lord Nasher, her tone visibly more respectful. “My Lord, please excuse Lady Firanis from the court; her condition is grave and she needs to rest immediately.”

“I agree,” concurred Nasher.

“No!” Firanis tried to wiggle out of Katriona’s supporting grasp but the knight had been right. She had little strength left and her efforts to free herself proved to be fruitless and, with resignation stamped on her face, she gave up. “My Lord, please.” Firanis didn’t even look at Nasher as she spoke: her head was much too heavy for her to do so. “I need him. _We_ need him. The only way to defeat Shemal is in his own ground, and if we are to do so, Bishop is essential. Just…” Firanis stopped to take a hand to her overly dry throat. “Take that into consideration when before you deliver the verdict.”

“We shall.” Nasher’s tone was neutral which, Firanis thought, was a step ahead of the accusatory one he’d used yesterday. “And your first priority as of now is rest. We will send for you only if it’s absolutely necessary.”

Firanis bowed. “Thank you, my Lord.” She then turned to leave, Katriona always supporting her, but before she was gone, she stole one look at Bishop – a look she feared might be the very last. Perhaps that was why her heart seemingly tried to jump out of her chest; or perhaps – no, most certainly – it simply was because of the way he was staring back at her. There were no longer feelings of convoluted hatred clouding his eyes and his face was not creased with lines of paranoia.

She couldn’t say for sure, but after she had left the room, Firanis was certain that, at last, Bishop had finally found some measure of peace and acceptance. Bishop had held a lot of things against her; he had accused Firanis of lying, of manipulating, of withholding. Those feelings were gone now, resonating deeply with Firanis’s core as they departed.

To know she had played a part in eliminating even just a fragment of all the hatred welled up in Bishop’s soul… Firanis was filled by a surge of relief. However, it was short-lived, for she almost immediately realized that while Bishop was important to her, there was still the matter of Shemal and how much of a threat he posed to Ilwyn.

“We have to attack Shemal tomorrow,” Firanis told Katriona.

“I thought that rushed plan of yours was only viable if you had Bishop,” the knight commented.

“I know. But I cannot risk to wait for long.”

“No. You cannot.”

They reached Firanis’s room, where Elanee was still waiting inside, and a large wooden tub was placed near the fireplace. She ran her gaze through Firanis, shaking her head, but as far as her disapproval went, that was the only way she manifested it. “I’ll have the servants draw you a bath,” she said, leaving the room to attend to the task.

Katriona set Firanis down on the bed. “They won’t kill him. Radrien won’t let them,” she whispered while waiting for the aasimar’s breath to even. 

Firanis nervously fumbled with her skirt. “Katriona… thank you.”

“For what?” the warrior asked. “Defeating Shemal is our utmost priority and if Bishop has been getting his agents into Neverwinter unnoticed, he is far more valuable alive than dead.” Her lips curved in a small smile. “Even if you only want to save Bishop because of your feelings for him… You played your cards right.”

“I surely hope so. I haven’t come this far to get lost in the forest.” A strand of hair fell in front of Firanis’s eyes and she tucked it back behind her ear. “I would ask something else of you, Katriona.”

“Ask away.”

“If the Nine and Nasher have a meeting later this evening… I would like you to tell them my plan.”

Katriona raised an eyebrow, but her quizzical expression eased almost immediately. “I agree. It’s best you stay here and rest.” She sat down beside Firanis. “Now tell me of your plan.”

During the next fifteen minutes, Firanis, in a very hushed, hurried tone, told Katriona her plan to infiltrate Luskan and deal with Shemal. The warrior of the Nine listened attentively, interjecting here and there with comments and suggestions.

“Why take those three and not any of your old friends?” Katriona asked halfway around Firanis’s explanation.

“I need Rekat’s stealth expertise and Aniel’s shadows to get in unnoticed. She will hide us and Rekat will make sure we stay that way,” Firanis said. “And no one knows the place like Yarija; plus, her psionic powers should prove an asset. As for my old friends…” Firanis guiltily bit her lower lip. “We need a distraction, and if there’s to be an attack at the front gates, there’s no one better than Khelgar and Casavir to do the job. Have Sand, Ammon Jerro and Zhjaeve stay in the rearguard along with other wizards and Neeshka and the rogues protecting them. Grobnar…”

“He has built another construct,” informed Katriona.

“Oh.” Firanis’s eyes widened. “Then he should stay back and let his new toy go in the front. If he made this one as well as the last, it will most definitely help you in the front.”

“Do you want Elanee to stay back?” Being the only name Firanis hadn’t mentioned, it was only natural for Katriona to ask such a question.

“Her healing skills are needed to you. She should go as well.”

“But you’d prefer her to stay here.”

Firanis didn’t know if it was fear or love that kept her silent, but she couldn’t muster a reply to Katriona’s clear statement; so, she went on. “There’s also another person I believe you should take.”

Katriona squinted. “Who?”

“Tyavain. Now, before you protest, Katriona, I know she’s Radrien’s niece and I know you fear she might desert you when you need her the most as her aunt did – but you need her.”

“It’s not so much as her family as it is the fact that the girl is _mad_!” Katriona hissed. “She is a danger to us all and we cannot have a wild card in the middle of a battlefield!”

“You should still take her.” Then, Firanis remembered the conversation she’d had with Tyavain not so long ago. “It’s Tyavain’s destiny; I don’t believe she’ll betray it.”

Katriona sighed. “I will run your plan by Lord Nasher, then.”

“Thank-” Firanis stopped mid-sentence to look sideways at the door when she heard a knock upon it. Seconds later, half a dozen of servants carrying steaming buckets of water walked in, heads bowed in deference, with Elanee behind them. A couple of buckets were set near the fireplace and the rest emptied in the tub, along with a bottle of scented oil – orchids and plumerias, Firanis smelled.

With an acknowledging nod, Katriona left the room, as did the servants. Only Elanee and Firanis remained in the room and the moment they were left alone, the elf crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not leaving you alone when you are barely conscious.”

“I expected as much,” sighed Firanis. She turned and, without uttering a word, Elanee helped her out of the loose black robes and into the foamy water. Instantly, Firanis felt her whole body relaxing – she even felt a fragment of warmth spreading through her skin.

“You are such a foolish woman, Firanis,” Elanee breathed.

“I know,” Firanis admitted. Before Elanee dripped warm water over her head, Firanis noticed her skin tasted like salt, which was probably due to the sweat which had clung to her body. She leaned back against the tub and closed her eyes. Now that the relaxation had settled in, Firanis was aware of how aching her limbs were and of how heavy her breathing was. Her head, too, was a spinning mess and her eyelids felt like lead.

Firanis felt the curse swirling, twisting, gnawing, gorging in what was left of her soul and eating her from the inside, stronger than it had ever been.

She did not know for how long she stood with her eyes closed but eventually, she spoke. “Elanee?” Firanis did not sound like herself – at least, she didn’t remember her voice being as raspy as sand.

“Yes?”

“If something happens to me-”

“Nothing will happen to you.”

Firanis, through much effort, opened her eyelids to look at the wood elf. A single tear slid out and fell into the water with a barely audible _ping_. “Please take care of Ilwyn.”

Elanee smiled and kissed Firanis’s head. “Nothing will happen to you,” she repeated. “Everything will be all right.” And even though she knew otherwise, just for a moment, Firanis disbelieved all the facts she knew and hoped Elanee was right.

“You’re right.” Firanis smiled. “Can you please go fetch Ilwyn?”

“I will.”

Before she left, Elanee helped Firanis up. The aasimar wrapped a towel around her body and dried her hair with another while sitting down in front of the dressing table. After she was done, ran her fingers across her hair as she usually did before combing it. A stubborn knot stopped her fingers and Firanis tugged at it. It came off with almost no effort; so did a large lock of her hair.

Firanis was too tired to be in shock; she morbidly kept pulling softly, and occasional strands of her hair would fall here and there. By the time she realized what was happening, there already was a significant amount of hair on the dressing table. A startled Firanis rose up to her feet, punching the hard wood of the table in the process.

Her chest rose and fell violently; her hand hurt from the impact and Firanis had to massage it to ease the pain, cursing as she did so. She looked at herself in the mirror, but it wasn’t the nightmarish face reflected upon it that disturbed her; it was Ilwyn, standing alone behind her, eyes very wide with a mixture of fear and wonder.

Soon, Ilwyn was by her side and gingerly taking Firanis’s hand between her small, soft fingers. Ilwyn was being gentle – so gentle that Firanis realized the girl _knew_. What she had been trying to hide from everyone, Ilwyn knew. She did not understand it, however – she was much too innocent to be able to do so – and it had been for that innocence that Firanis had done what she had.

There was only one person Firanis couldn’t stand to endanger, and there was only one person Firanis would sacrifice everything for. Ilwyn.

“Come, mother,” Ilwyn whispered, tenderness causing her voice to waver. “Let’s go to sleep.”

 

 

“That plan is insane, Katriona,” said sir Darmon. “Whatever disease Firanis has, it’s not just killing her body; it’s killing her mind.”

“It’s not all that insane, Darmon,” Katriona declared, turning to Nasher. “It’s risky, yes, but certainly my Lord must agree that it’s also our only hope. We cannot wait for Shemal to attack us; we’ll never stand a chance if we let that happen. Yet, if we attack _him_ instead…”

“It will be impossible for you to defeat Shemal without Firanis,” stated Torio. “I have been watching him for years and so far, she was the only one who was able to physically affect him. She’s your trump card – the ace on your sleeve – and, now that she’s visibly degrading, it would be most unwise not to use her while she’s alive.”

Before anyone else could speak, Lord Nasher held up a hand and all tongues were effectively held. He took his other hand to his chin, which he scratched while immersed in deep thought. He didn’t want to use Firanis; she was clearly in suffering and edging closer to death by each minute that passed, but the aasimar was so determined in putting an end to Shemal that Nasher could not refuse her. She knew she was the only one who could defeat Shemal, and he believed her; after all, if she hadn’t posed a threat to their enemy, Shemal would never have asked for her to be held in Luskan in exchange for a truce.

“Katriona and Torio are right. We have to seize this opportunity while we can; to do otherwise would be risking too much.” He looked at the guard by the door. “Send them in.”

The guard nodded and opened the door; at once, Yarija, Rekat, Aniel, Radrien, Amaya, Tyavain and, much to Nasher’s surprise, Aarin Gend were inside the room, roles of parchment in their hands. “Aarin,” Nasher said. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“There is much at stake, my Lord,” whispered the former spymaster. “And despite what you might think, my love for this city still has not waned.”

Nasher exhaled slowly, something he often did to keep himself in control of his words. “The choices you made spoke for you.”

“And we are not here to discuss them,” Aarin finished the discussion before it had even started, and Nasher respected him for that. Aarin had never been an explosive man; it was one of the reasons he had been such an excellent spymaster. But if he would choose a woman as volatile as Radrien over Neverwinter, the position he had occupied was much too dangerous to be left in his hands. His decision to demote Aarin had been carefully pondered and Aarin had never understood it – and Nasher was certain he never would.

“So… Where are we attacking Luskan from?” asked Amaya while clasping her hands.

“ _You_ are going?” Nevalle raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

She waved him off. “Long story that involves a pact with a devil in exchange for answers. He wanted me to help Firanis in the war and from my experience, I’d better pay up. At any rate, if Tyavain insists on going, I’m going to keep an eye on her… And I believe you need all the help you can get.”

Although many might consider her so, Nasher knew Amaya was speaking in a matter-of-factly way rather than arrogance. He had seen her in the battle of Crossroad Keep and he didn’t think she would betray Neverwinter for Luskan. “We will attack from the front,” he answered, “so as to create a distraction for a small infiltration team.”

“Us,” concluded Yarija. She, Rekat and Aniel were now looming over the table, examining the several blueprints of Luskan Radrien and Aarin had provided them with. The psion, after a moment of consideration, placed her finger on a particular part of the maps; she looked at both Aniel and Rekat. “What do you think?”

“Shemal is usually in the southern Hosttower; if we go around the northern and eastern towers,” said Aniel, “we have a chance of getting to him unnoticed. Problem is-”

“Even with a massive diversion, he wouldn’t leave himself unguarded.” Rekat furrowed his brow. “Ethlinn will definitely be near him.”

“She is for Firanis to handle,” Yarija pointed out; she pursed her lips slightly before adding, “The same applies to Brian.”

Nasher noticed that everyone around him was exchanging worried glances, and with reason. It was already doubtful that Firanis would be able to stand on her own, let alone take out Shemal and two others. As though she was reading their thoughts, Yarija affirmed, “She _will_ be able to do it. Do not doubt that.”

“My main problem is with the distraction, actually,” Rekat said. “We need a big one, and from what I know, I’m not sure Neverwinter will be able to hold out for long.”

“We will hold on,” Tyavain said with oddly grim determination. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Nasher found that he was frowning. He had heard much about this girl – he had even sent Nevalle to keep an eye on her, - and even though she did not appear to be lying, he still did not trust her. He didn’t think anyone could.

“If you’re going, can’t you just kill the Luskans by using their true names?” Casavir, who had been silent up until now, asked.

Tyavain blinked before chuckling softly. “If it were that easy, don’t you think I’d be able to do whatever I wanted? It is accurate that True names have the power to change the world as long as you use them well.” Tyavain whispered, her eyes looking down. “See, the way they work is basically like a wizard’s lab notes: you can have them, but if you don’t have enough power or knowledge to use them, they’re useless to you; if you work too hard, your mind gets foggier that you can’t think about anything, and your tongue grows number that it gets difficult for you to be able to talk – that’s the World itself opposing to the changes. Not to mention that I can only see a limited number of true names per day, and I cannot, in any way, alter so many things in so little time.”

“What about a key person?” Katriona pointed out.

“Depends on their resistance,” Tyavain said while shaking her head. “For instance, I could kill dozens of peasants with an utterance, but say, you or Firanis would most likely only be weakened if I were to use it against you.

“What I _can_ do, however, is assure you that we will hold out for as long as Firanis needs. That is all you need to know.”

Nasher closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, sighing softly. The meeting went on for hours and hours, every little detail carefully gone over. The assault tomorrow could not fail – if it did… Neverwinter would be lost and that was an outcome Nasher could not abide by. Even if it would kill him, he would fight for his city until his last breath. And when the infiltration had been taken care of, it was time to deal with the trip.

That was when they called the traitor who had been acquitted just hours earlier.

If there was something Nasher despised, it was treason. But Firanis had been right; if they were to pull this off, they needed the ranger’s knowledge of the land and… There was something in the way she talked, some sort of eerie charisma that had convinced the jury that Bishop hadn’t betrayed Neverwinter. He had betrayed her.

Radrien had compared Firanis to Aribeth, but in Nasher’s eyes, it was the ranger who was like Aribeth the most. He had turned his back on the city like his former paladin, and all to take revenge in the same of someone he, in his own, twisted way, cared for.

No, Firanis was not like Aribeth at all; if anything, she was like Radrien. From what he knew of Firanis’s character, he had the feeling that she would always do what was right, even if it cost her a dear one’s life. Radrien could have revolted against Neverwinter when they killed Aribeth, but instead she chose to simply vanish into the underworld, only to re-emerge later in a time of crisis. And, had Bishop been executed, Firanis surely still would have gone forward with her plan to defeat Shemal.

Yes, Firanis reminded him much of Radrien. He just hoped she would come through alive as Radrien had.

 

 

After the prolonged discussion with Nasher’s tacticians, Tyavain knew that she should go to sleep. Although the outcome was unknown, Firanis’s journey would, without a doubt, end tomorrow – and, according to the Knower of Places, it would be where Tyavain’s very own started.

The young tiefling had tried to sleep. She really had. But a nagging sense of urgency, coupled with uncomfortable ecstasy had kept on tugging her awake. Eventually, she gave up and decided to take a small walk around Blacklake district to kill an hour or two.

Donning a heavy jacket to keep out the cold, Tyavain went outside into the dimly lit streets. Her brisk walking and light breeze caused her hair to swirl, tousling it. Tyavain searched the pockets of the coat for a bow, but there were none. The voices inside her head rose, taking advantage of such a trivial aspect to unsettle Tyavain even more.

Then, all of a sudden, they were quiet.

“What are you doing here?”

Tyavain pivoted on her toes, hair twirling around her frame, blue eyes very wide. He had taken the taints by surprise, she realized, and silenced their voices. Even with the cold, Tyavain felt herself blushing. “I couldn’t sleep.”

She said nothing else, and Nevalle seemed to mistake her silence for a question. “We’re preparing for the assault tomorrow.”

“Aren’t you going to sleep tonight?” she asked.

“We’re sleeping in shifts. My turn was two hours ago; it’s Grayson’s now.”

Tyavain sketched a tight smile on her lips. She wasn’t at ease around him and, as idiotic as that sounded, she wanted the taints back so that she wouldn’t have to deal with her pathetic hormones. As though they’d heard her, the taints came bouncing back, and the feeling on her head was similar to the piercing of an arrow. She took a hand to her temples and closed her eyes for a brief moment before asking, “Do you need any help?”

“No.” He was smiling back at her, and Tyavain noticed how beautiful that expression was on him. “You need to rest, Tyavain.”

“So do you,” she said. “And yet you’re up and running around.”

“I have to.” Nevalle sighed, which indicated he wasn’t too fond of his task. “In fact, I was just about to go get Bishop.”

Tyavain raised her eyebrows. A part of her was still appalled that Bishop had been absolved of his crimes and that part wanted to see how the ordeal had affected him. “Interesting. May I come along?”

“I can’t see why not.”

For some reason unbeknownst to Tyavain, Nevalle offered his arm. She stared at it for a while, confusion dancing in her eyes. The voices rose, telling her the most cruel things and, out of the blue, Tyavain noticed she was afraid.

Almost reluctantly she wrapped an arm around his. Her heart was pumping and her breath was rushing in and out of her lungs. “What do you want from Bishop?”

“ _I_ don’t want anything from him,” said Nevalle. “But he says he needs to talk to Firanis and one of the Nine has to escort him.”

“You still don’t trust him,” Tyavain pointed out.

Nevalle’s response was immediate. “No.”

“But you need him. Isn’t that counter-productive?”

“It is. But even though I don’t trust him, I don’t think he’s going to betray Firanis. Not this time.”

They were at the end of the corridor where Bishop’s guarded room was when summoned enough courage to look at Nevalle. Her lips trembled due to the question upon them. “Do you trust _me_?”

Nevalle stopped to take a long, full look at her. Tyavain could see in his face that he was at a loss of words. He didn’t quite knew how to reply. She sighed and shook her head, eyes closed. “Never mind that. No one does, anyway.”

He squeezed her hand gently. “No. It’s not that.” He looked away for a moment. “You said you had taints, Tyavain, and I’ve seen them I action. And yes, I was scared of you that day, when they took hold of you. But I’ve also seen who you are without them. You,” he spun her around, and grabbed her by the shoulders, “are not the taints. The taints I don’t trust, but the person who is Tyavain… Her, I do.”

Tyavain’s lips parted. The taints spoke louder, but she did not care. She threw her arms around sir Nevalle’s neck in an awkward, impulsive embrace. She felt his shocked reaction, but then he relaxed; his arms circled her waist so tenderly Tyavain shivered. “Thank you,” she murmured against the uncovered skin of his neck. She then pulled away, but stopped when she noticed Nevalle’s arms were still around her waist.

She had told him she knew him better than he knew himself, and she hadn’t been lying. His true name was on the tip of her tongue, and with it came all the nuances of Nevalle’s personality, descriptions of everything he was, everything he had been and everything he would become.

However, she didn’t need to use his true name to know what she was seeing. As he gazed at her, there was something illuminating his eyes. It was realization. It was also realization that drove him to tuck a lock of Tyavain’s loose hair behind her ear and to tilt her chin upwards with his thumb. Tyavain felt her breath catching and it seemed inevitable to keep her gaze from moving to his lips.

_You have been trapped, fledgling! He will tear you to pieces!_

_Lies! It is you who has trapped him and it is you who shall destroy him!_

Tyavain’s sight wavered. Her hands had fallen to his chest and she was now lifting them to his face. As she’d predicted, Nevalle’s skin was smooth, except for the stubble he had grown these past few days. As she ran her fingers across his jaw, the taints spoke even louder. Tyavain didn’t listen. She felt safe with him, so safe…

“You’re such a bad person, Bishop. But I suppose it could be worse.” Elanee’s voice, which had travelled across the corridor, broke them up instantly. Nevalle crossed his arms across his chest and Tyavain intertwined hers together.

“What kind of insult is that?” he asked, and it was noticeable it had been a bit more bluntly than he’d intended. Just from that sentence Tyavain was sure that Bishop had, indeed, chanced.

“It’s not an insult – neither is it a compliment. Just an assessment of your character.” The tension was evident in Elanee’s voice. “You are a bastard, but a _very_ lucky one.”

“Whatever you say, Elanee.” He paused. When he spoke again, he sounded unexpectedly tired. “When can I see her?”

“I think that’s my cue,” said Nevalle. He was nervous, and perhaps slightly fearful, sentiments Tyavain mirrored. Bishop had changed, but he had not been the only one. Nevalle had changed, and Tyavain had as well.

And she knew why.

“True fear… and true love,” Tyavain whispered so quietly that she almost went unnoticed.

“What?” Sir Nevalle asked.

"It's not hate that's on the other side of the coin of love... it's fear."

 

 

Silent and petrified, Aniel was by his side again, and she would remain there for as long as he stayed here in the courtyard.

It was driving Rekat mad.

Except that he wasn’t mad at _her_. He was mad at _himself_. Next to him, Aniel looked sad, lonely, forlorn and deep down inside, Rekat knew it was his fault, and he hated himself for that. He wished she didn’t hurt. He really did, and t know he was the cause of her pain… _that_ was what was driving him mad.

“Aniel?”

She nearly jumped at the sound of Rekat’s voice, unheard ever since the meeting. For two days they’d stood side by side, never speaking directly to one another, never touching one another, both of them wanting but none of them daring. And now suddenly… Rekat had spoken… to her. Her name a bare question but in that low, slightly hoarse voice of his, it was more melodious then the songs angels sang.

Gathering all her will, she said, “Yes?”

“Every day you come here and stand next to me,” he went on in a mix of confusion and detachment, “and you don’t speak; you don’t edge closer. You just come and stand there, just an inch away from me, not enough for us to touch but enough for me to feel your warmth. And every day, while you just stand there, I feel your gaze on me; I know it because it burns me, Aniel, but when I look at you, you’re already looking somewhere else.” He took a pause to swallow as though speaking to her was something which took great effort. “And whenever I look at you, I know you’re miserable. Sad. Depressed. And I know the why of that as well.

“So, Aniel, I wonder why you still come to stand next to me and why do you always look at me with those beautiful green eyes of yours when it only makes you hurt?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he didn’t let her.

He went on, “In Luskan, it wounded you to see me because we were apart. Rifted. And we both were too stubborn to admit how much we needed each other. Our pride wouldn’t let us. But now…” his voice broke as he caught hold of her hand, bringing it up to eye level. Aniel trembled at the contact but she didn’t take her hand back; she didn’t muster the strength to do so. “Now you’re hurting because you love me and I love you – and we can’t because of the newfound family ties which have been imposed on us. Ties we have never felt and – forgive me for being an awful relative - ties _I_ do not want. And I feel neither do you.”

He squeezed her hand, his watery eyes absorbed in studying every detail of it, drinking the sight of it in as though he could not allow himself to know anything more personal, more _private_ of her. Her chest tightened so much at the thought; she was on the verge of crying. “I’d do anything to see all this sadness and all this pain gone from you, Aniel. I want you to smile and laugh because whenever you so rarely truly did so in the past, your happiness seeped into me as well; and Mask be merciful, it made you even more flawlessly beautiful than you already are.

“Aniel, if I had to take the sun down from the horizon to make you happy, I’d do it; if it had to be the moon instead, I’d do it all the same. If you felt greedy and wanted all the stars plucked out from the sky, I still wouldn’t hesitate.” Rekat was clasping her hand to tightly now, both his and her knuckles were white. Yet it didn’t bother her the slightest - not even the tears pouring like rain down her face did. All she cared about now was Rekat and how his words rocked her to the very core, rendering her mute as they enthralled her into oblivion.

“If you got homesick and asked for every grain of sand in Zakhara, I’d run back and forth as many times as I needed to get them all to you; if you wanted snow from the highest peaks of Toril, I’d climb them up and bring all of it down just so I could watch it melt against the lovely heat of your skin. If you went blind and I had to relinquish my own eyes for you to see – I’d do it. If you went back to the Abyss and I had to plunge down into it to get to you, I’d jump even if the final result was you sending me back home alone. And if you told me to die for you, Aniel,” he smiled but Aniel thought it was oddly misplaced in the middle of that sentence. “Don’t doubt I’d be the first person to stake myself in the heart. Hells, I’d even rip the accursed thing off if you asked me for it!

“You said once you had men whose need to have you was so strong it bordered obsession. You were mistaken, Aniel. There are no _men_. There is one and it isn’t Rimal, like you intended. And even that one man I’m talking about is not obsessed with the need to have you; yes, he cares – he _loves_ – greatly and he wants you more than he wants to take his next breath. But his obsession is not his savage need to own you. His obsession is your joy.”

He sounded almost desperate now and Aniel wanted to take it all away from him. She had the direst need to hold Rekat and comfort him and relieved the pain he too was feeling from him. Even if she had to take it into herself, she’d do it so he wouldn’t be burdened anymore.

“Rekat,” she croaked but his other hand pressed against her lips, hard and desolate.

“Oh, Aniel, I’m such a fool,” he whispered brokenly, suddenly so close to her their foreheads touched. “I blabber about wanting your happiness and I’m making you cry. I can’t stand to see you cry, Aniel. You only do so when you’re _deeply_ saddened. And because _I_ am the man who’d do even the impossible to see your life filled with bliss… Aniel, because I am that man and because I’m also the reason you’re crying, I find myself lost. Bewildered. I want to make you happy but that means I have to go. And if you ask, I will.”

“N-no,” she stammered, even more tears breaking free of their hold. “Don’t go, Rekat. Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Ever so softly, he sighed; she felt his frown against her forehead. “But you are miserable when I’m here as well. And I don’t know what to do. It is so because we’re flesh and blood… So… if what’s causing you pain is my flesh and blood,” his tone was straining from emotion, dark and excruciating. “Then I will willingly rip off my flesh and bleed all my blood until whatever family ties that bind us are gone. If _that_ would make you happy, Aniel, just say so and I’ll do it. Just don’t cry anymore, _please_ don’t cry anymore.”

But she did. She cried harder and harder as the whole weight of Rekat’s words settled on her. He loved her. She loved him. Didn’t poets and storytellers preach that love was good, a light in the darkness, hope among despair? Did they say it was salvation? So why did she feel doomed, ready to be cleaved in two and so ready to anguish herself into madness?

The hand she took to Rekat’s face told her he was crying too. She didn’t want him to cry, not for her. She just wanted to see that dimpled smile of his that cast him apart from everyone else she’d ever met. And that told her that she _didn’t_ want the sun or the moon or the stars or anything else in the world. She just wanted him. She just wanted Rekat. And she wanted him to be happy as much as he wanted her to be.

“I,” she hiccupped, cutting off her sentence for a moment. “Rekat, I have always been flesh of your flesh because from the moment I saw you in Baldur’s Gate eight years ago, yours eyes chained me to you and I was yours. My flesh was yours. And when I saw that guard coming at you with a poisoned knife, I took the blow in yours stead and bled for you. It was my blood for yours.” Her hand snuck to the back of his head and gripped his hair tightly, holding on to him, for he was her life. “My flesh and my blood are yours. They have always been.

“So we’re of the same flesh and blood by our own choices, Rekat, not because of Shemal. He’s not my father; he’s not your brother. And _he_ won’t be the one who binds us together. Because…” a sob racked her body and, with all her strength, she pulled away from Rekat, forcing him to let go of her hand. She pulled away only to be able to look at him in the eye and cup both sides of his face. He trembled under her touch and his beautiful green eyes were reddened – as she knew hers were. “We are what we want to be, Rekat. Didn’t I tell you that once? Not to underestimate that which our minds can achieve? So I’ll be your flesh and blood because I love you so much, I gave them both to you. And I’ll add my heart there as well because that’s something no one else but me will be able to give away.”

She kissed his tears away, their salty taste making her thirsty; she kissed every scar, knowing their places better than she knew the lines on the palm of her hand. And then, she added, “My soul is also yours because the day I met you was the day I knew it existed.”

Aniel slanted her lips across his. Slowly. Knowing that the love she felt for him would protect him from her succubus half, for it cowered when faced with something so strong it did not understand. And against his lips, she murmured her plea. “So take me, Rekat and know I’m all that only because I love you.” 

Upon hearing her words, Rekat realized nothing else mattered. For the first time ever since he’d met Aniel, there was understanding between them – and understand that ran deep, as deep as their bones. It was because of that understanding that they spoke no more. Not because they were cowards but simply because nothing more needed to be said.

 

 

“Why don’t you just give up, Rimal?” Yarija’s acute voice asked from the entrance of the balcony.

“How do you _always_ know where I am?” he asked back, irritation flaring inside him. “Are you following me, little witch?”

She gave him that ugly twist of her features which was an attempt at a smile. He’d met Yarija years ago and still, he’d never quite figured her out. Something had always been odd about her; his once strong paladin aura had said it was the strong amount of evil inside her. Now with the aura dwindled, he knew there was something else. That aura of self-righteousness had blinded him in ways he couldn’t even begin to number; it’d sensed evil, that much was true – but it’d never told the evil had not been Yarija’s; it’d never told she was an innocent among all this; that she’d never chosen to walk this path.

“You’re always here, Rimal,” she stated. “Your stupid fascination with Aniel clouds your steps. I don’t think even you realize that every day, when she and Rekat stand by each other to watch the sunset, you come to this balcony to watch them.” She sighed.

He snorted, “I don’t need your pity.”

“I’m not giving it. I don’t know how.”

For a while, all Rimal could do was stare at her lithe frame casually leaning against the wall; her eyes were half closed, her face turned to the side as her attention was focused somewhere else. The unevenly cut hair seemed to hold a coppery glow under the sunset’s glow and… She was different. He hadn’t paid attention to it before, but all the shadows had been lifted off her face, leaving only pale, perfect skin to be beheld.

“I’m giving you something else, though.” Her voice was deeper, more distant. “I just don’t know what. But it’s not pity; how could I pity you when you chose to hold on to those shadows of evil? When you chose to leave the light that’s never bathed me?”

Her eyes, once pale yellow, were now glowing amber; her cheeks flushed to a rosy pink. In Rimal’s eyes, slowly, ever so slowly, color seemed to be seeping into her, like she was a black and white drawing being painted to its full glory. “I think…” she liked her pensive lips. “I think I’m giving you a chance to be understood instead of cast aside, Rimal.”

His eyes slit at her. “Why would you care, little witch?”

“I don’t _care_ ,” she snapped. “But if you keep on falling, you’ll fully succumb to the darkness you have created yourself. You’ll be haunted and ruthless and your soul will be nothing but a pit of hatred. It will become so hungry that, once it devours all the remnants of light which still dwell hidden within you, it’ll turn to your mind; and, like a snake, it’ll coil around it and sink its fangs deep into your sanity. The poison will make you blind, uncaring but it’ll _hurt_. It’ll hurt so much you’ll do anything to stop it.”

Rimal stood motionless, gaping at Yarija. Her words were sinister but he drank them all until they held him in something close to a trance. Then, they waded into his too-relaxed mind and _twisted_. Something in him acknowledged he should be scared by what Yarija was telling him and that he should tell her to shut the hell up but the movement of her lips was so hypnotic… how could he ask her to be quiet when her full, _red_ lips performed such a dance for him?

She spoke and he wanted to do nothing but listen. “Then, Rimal, you will begin to kill, hoping your famished soul will begin to feast on your victims instead of your mind. You’ll balance on the brink of sanity for a long, long time. Until one day when you finally let go of everything and delve into madness without ever hoping to surface.”

She stopped. Rimal didn’t want her to stop. He just wanted Yarija to speak to him forever even if the subject was his own doom. But she didn’t; she just came to stand beside him at the edge of the balcony and looked down at where Aniel and Rekat stood.

Seeing them again made thick, hot jealousy spear him. Aniel shouldn’t be with the thief. She should be with _him_. She should be _his_.

But then, just as he’d begun to gnash his teeth, there was Yarija’s strangely melodic voice again. “Oh, Rimal… Do you think that if she _really_ wanted _you_ , she’d be down there with Rekat?”

Anger gnawed at him that instant, irrational and strong. “She should. At least _I_ am not her uncle.”

“But they never saw each other as uncle and niece. When they met, they were just Aniel and Rekat, woman and man. Aren’t you being a bit unfair to them?”

When he did not reply, she took it as a cue to continue, “When you merely _think_ to love her, when you merely _want_ her to satisfy you, Rekat does not. I’ve seen them, Rimal and it isn’t simple lust.”

“And how would you know?” he found himself asking, impatience simmering on his husky tone.

Yarija smiled. Not that ugly baring of her teeth but an astonishingly beautiful smile. “You’ve known her for three years and you think you have a claim on her because she tumbled into your bed. But I ask you, paladin−”

“I’m not a paladin.”

Her tone remained firm. “I ask you, _paladin_ , isn’t Rekat worthier than you when he spent _five_ whole years with her, day and night and _never_ , not even once, let his lust for Aniel take control of him? He wanted – more than you ever did – yet he still didn’t do it. He didn’t do it because he thought she couldn’t bear it.

“Paladin, while you _think_ , he does. His love is not the illusion of a besotted mind. It’s real and it’s there. And while you want her so much as to ground her, shackle her to you – he wants her enough he’s willing to let her go. And for that… she loves him too.”

“You’re making me the villain in all this, little witch.”

“I am,” she bluntly admitted. “But in doing so, I’m hoping to free you because if you _don’t_...” she bit down her lip, warily. “You’ll become just like Shemal. And this world cannot stand another like him. Neither can I.”

The little mind witch was the strangest thing he’d ever seen, Rimal reckoned. She sounded like she cared for him and yet he hadn’t doubted the truth in her words when she’d said she didn’t; she seemed to pity him but as she’d told him, she was incapable of such a feeling because she did not know how. She’d probably never felt the receiving end of it.

No, the little mind witch wasn’t doing this for him. She was doing this for the man, Rekat, and Aniel. Wasn’t he also her uncle and she her half-sister? But why embrace the bond when so many clearly wanted to sever it?

As if she’d heard his thoughts, she replied. “Rekat practically raised me, you know? So I guess accepting him as an uncle isn’t so hard because I’ve always seen him as a big brother. And Aniel? Well, if the only way my big brother can be happy is by having her at his side… I’ll help him win her. She can’t be really bad if she loves him like that; people who’re purely evil aren’t able to hold such a feeling as she does.

“But trust me, paladin… the only reason I’m not killing you to prevent you from breaking them up is because I know nothing will be able to do that now. And because there’s still a chance for you to turn back.”

All at once, she shadows fell back on her face and all colors drained. Yarija looked menacing, cruel and full, so full of hatred.

“There’s no need to bring about any more darkness than already is.” She turned her back to him and walked out of the balcony, pausing briefly at the threshold to steal a last look at him from over her shoulder. “I am that selfish, paladin. If I have to bring you to the light you once basked in against your will, I will.”

 _I am that selfish,_ paladin, the words echoed within the walls of his mind, her voice still that lulling, seductive song which enthralled him like nothing else did. And only then did Rimal know that the only reason Yarija was trying to save him was to save herself.

 

 

Bishop entered the room almost soundlessly; he closed the door and leaned against it, his lips slightly parted in hesitation. Bishop stared at Firanis, unable to move; it had to be somewhat late in the night and she was fast asleep, the girl curled up against her.

He must have made some kind of sound, because Firanis stirred and her eyelids fluttered open. Propping herself up on an elbow, she looked at the door and saw him. Firanis got up from the bed carefully so as not to disturb the girl and tilted her head in the direction of another door before going in that direction. Bishop followed and once they were both in the adjacent room, he closed the door.

Firanis lit a candle and placed it on a table. Then, she just stared at him in the very same way she had years ago while trying to stay calm. She bowed down her head. “I…” She looked at him from under her eyelashes. “I’m glad you’re alive.”

“Not more than I am.”

A smile formed on her lips, and it was the source of a strange, yet familiar skip of Bishop’s heart. Bishop had always found Firanis to be beautiful. She wasn’t so anymore, with her spotted skin and bloated flesh. No, she wasn’t beautiful anymore - at least, not physically, - but she still managed to incite an unnatural surge of longing.

“They approved my plan?”

“Yes.”

She looked away. “We… are departing now, aren’t we?”

They were. He told her that, but didn’t move to leave afterwards. She picked up on that and said, “We won’t have any time to spare after we go.” She took a step towards him.

“What are you doing?” Bishop whispered.

“We always were on stole time.” Firanis’s warm breath fanned his skin; one single tear glided down the smooth curves of her cheek before she waveringly replied, “I’m just stealing a couple of last seconds.”

A very large part of Bishop was expecting her to ask something, but he wasn’t sure of what exactly. That very large part also wanted him to kiss her, and when Firanis touched his cheek, Bishop actually did think that at least that wish would be fulfilled.

“Thank you, Bishop,” she gently said. “For everything.”

Bishop didn’t know why or how, but the guilt, the hatred, the bitterness… As soon as he had heard those words, he no longer felt them plaguing his soul. Earlier, during the trial, what she had said had been an apology, but this… This was forgiveness. She was forgiving him everything.

What had he said to himself once? That forgiveness was as out of reach as the sky?

Despite everything, she was forgiving him.

Suddenly, the sky wasn’t so out of reach at all.

With a slight squeeze of his hand, Firanis walked past him and proceeded to awake Ilwyn. She did so by kissing her daughter’s temples and brushing the girl’s locks with her fingers. Ilwyn woke up and regarded Firanis with a face groggy from sleep. Ilwyn rubbed her eyes so as not to fall asleep.

“Are you leaving, mom?” she asked.

“Yes.” Kneeling in front of Ilwyn, Firanis whispered, “Whatever happens, Ilwyn, know that mom loves you, okay?” Firanis palmed her daughter’s cheek tenderly, her eyes brimming with tears.

“But… you’re coming back, aren’t you, mom?” the girl’s voice was meek and thin.

Firanis did her best to smile but when she lifted her cheeks, the tears spilled down. “You are, by far, the best thing I’ve done.”

“Mom, stop talking like that!” Ilwyn pleaded. But her mother just shook her head, sniffing loudly. And when she kissed Ilwyn’s forehead, Ilwyn felt the shaking of her mother’s lips. Firanis heard the soft rustle of Bishop’s footsteps behind her and saw how Ilwyn’s face changed into an angry frown.

“And, should you ever see your father again…” Firanis held her daughter tightly, fingers combing through Ilwyn’s rich red-brown hair. “Please _do_ cut him some slack.”

As scared as she was by her mother’s frantic acting, Ilwyn couldn’t contain the surge of hatred which stuck to her words. “He is not my father,” she coolly stated, trying to break free of her mother’s embrace; but Firanis only tightened it further.

“Ilwyn—”

“No, mother!” The girl’s screams were muffled against Firanis’s neck. “He left you and you were hurt for so long because of him. He is not my dad!”

Ilwyn felt rather than saw her mother’s smile. “Ah, child… you’re so much like him it’s impossible to deny he is.”

With her lips in a dainty pout, Ilwyn sulked. Knowing that the girl would soon snap out of her childish tantrum, Firanis started to get ready. She took the leather armor Melynia had given her out of her trunk. It still fit like a second skin, and, while dressing it, Firanis was remembered of how meticulous her shiradi trainer had been with everything.

A dull spark at the corner of the dressing table caught her eye and Firanis reached for the source. It was Eleste’s ring.

She slipped it in one of her fingers, the material cool and slick against her skin. Afterwards, Firanis looked at her hair, whose strength was comparable to dry twigs in the summer. She braided it carefully and when she was about to tie a ribbon at the end, she felt Ilwyn’s hands over her own. She let go of the brain and let her daughter tie it for her. Ilwyn then hugged her tight by the waist. “I love you mom. Please come back.”

Firanis placed a hand on top of Ilwyn’s head. The girl started to sob and Firanis could help but to join her. The thought of never seeing Ilwyn again… it was the single most frightening thing in the entire Multiverse. The aasimar let her daughter calm down and soon, Ilwyn was once again sleepy, her young body demanding she sleep more. Firanis set her down on the bed and tucked her in. “I will always come back for you, Ilwyn.”

Those were the last words Firanis told her daughter.

Once outside, Zhjaeve was waiting for her. The githzerai was holding something whose light was unmistakable.

“The Silver Sword!” Firanis exclaimed.

“ _Know_ that we found all the pieces,” Zhjaeve said. “The only one that isn’t there is the one lodged in your chest. _Know_ that its regenerative powers will help you. Or at least, they will buy you more time.” She frowned. “You are distressed. Does it have something to do with Bishop?”

“Sometimes, people believe something so hard that, to them, it ends up becoming reality, even if it’s not.” Firanis was smiling, but in her tone, she mocked herself. “I really was a blind fool, you know? In all my self-absorbed beliefs, I kept telling myself that the only thing that mattered was to get my soul whole again, get the pieces I’d lost to Bishop back where they belonged… I was so stubborn, so dense that I never, _ever_ considered the fact that my soul has been complete all along.”

Zhjaeve’s hand kindly fell on her shoulder. “You’ve finally realized it, haven’t you?”

The aasimar sniffed, blinking back the tears which threatened to fall, and nodded.

“Mortals like to shape their sight to whatever their beliefs suit them,” Zhjaeve said. “In your case, you had to meet him once again to realize how wrong you were all along; true, he had a part of your soul… but, just like it happened between your father and mother, he wielded a part of himself to you. You were _always_ whole, but because of his betrayal, you _believed_ you weren’t; Bishop wasn’t with you for those eight years, but it was because he, too, needed to learn loss to understand how deeply his feelings for you ran.

“Belief is the strongest force in the Multiverse, Firanis. _Know_ that.”

“It doesn’t matter, Zhjaeve.” Firanis sighed. “What matters now is not my soul; it’s Ilwyn.”

“And because she matters, I believe you will come back.” Zhjaeve’s tone was as hard as stone. “You have to believe in it as well.”

Firanis looked down at the floor. “What if I don’t?”

“Then you will not come back.” Zhjaeve stated. She was cool, Firanis reckoned, much too cool. It was as though there was something she knew and wasn’t telling her. With a frown, she told the githzerai of her suspicions, but Zhjaeve wouldn’t speak of it. She dodged Firanis question by saying, “The others are waiting for you at the front gate.”

She left Firanis alone and the aasimar didn’t know if the intentions behind Zhjaeve’s withholding information were good or bad.

 

 

Yarija observed Rekat and Aniel, standing side-by-side as they waited for Firanis, Bishop and herself to arrive. There was something off about them, something that had always been there but had only just now been discovered.

At least those two had found some measure of peace.

Yarija tilted her neck to the side. Softly, the urgency of doing something dawned on her. She had the time to do it, if she hurried. It was something so simple, so obvious! How couldn’t she have thought of it before?

He was near the barracks, polishing his weapons. Yarija slowed down her pace so as not to appear out of breath when she approached him, but it was all for nothing. He stole her breath away anyhow.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Rimal looked at her, both her presence and her words having left him genuinely bewildered. “What are you apologizing for?”

Yarija shrugged. “I figured you were due an apology. If I’m to be the one who has to give it so you can move on with your life, then so be it.”

For a long moment, Rimal could not muster the words. His mind had been a mess for so long and to finally hear this from someone, it was…

She inclined her head forward. “That was all I wanted to say.”

And, as quickly as she had come, she was gone. She arrived the meeting point a few minutes later to discover everyone else was already there, along with their horses. “About time,” Bishop’s sigh was accompanied with a rolling of his eyes. “We’re ready to go, then.”

As Yarija didn’t feel like fighting, she decided to keep quiet and mount her horse instead. Aniel and Rekat did the same; Bishop helped Firanis up and, just as they’d planned, he sat behind her. They couldn’t take risks with her and there had been a shared fear that Firanis could lose consciousness; so, it had been agreed that she would not ride alone.

They would travel by horse up until the Luskan border; afterwards, they would go on foot for approximately four hours and wait for the assault at the front gate before going in.

Their journey by horse was uneventful. It was only when they went deep into the woods that Yarija begun to feel uneasy. She felt the chains on her skin changing, tightening; she also had that terrible feeling that someone was watching them. She looked up, frowning, but saw nothing besides the leaves rustling.

Bishop stopped at her side and Yarija saw that he was looking up as well. “Something is watching us,” she murmured. Immediately afterwards, a bird flew upwards, wings flapping loudly. “It’s Brian’s hawk!” Yarija hissed. She turned to look at Bishop and just as she did so, she saw something coming at her from the corner of her eye.

Yarija barely had the time to erect a psionic barrier around her. She felt the resistance of a weapon trying to pierce it before it dropped onto the floor. It was a dart.

“Shemal really is never wrong.” A few feet away from them, stood an impassive Brian. “We have been waiting for the four of you to return.” He arched a brow, examining each one of them carefully before stating, “You are different.” His eyes returned to Firanis and lingered there. “And it’s all because of _you_.”

Firanis tilted her chin upwards. “It is.” She held Brian’s gaze evenly. “Shemal knows we’re coming, doesn’t he?”

“He will now as soon as Scoithniamh arrives.”

Brian’s face remained rigid and emotionless. Firanis slowly began to draw the Silver Sword from her scabbard. “Do you even know what he’s planning to do?”

“Yes. He is going to unleash the curse upon Luskan and finally rid us of that which tampers with our emotions.”

“And you don’t care?” Firanis asked.

“No. I don’t. And even if I die here, which is the most likely outcome of this encounter…” Brian shrugged. “I still won’t care.”

Firanis gave him a lopsided smile. “You enjoy the gift your mother passed down on you, I suppose.”

“I don’t enjoy it. I don’t hate it either.”

“You don’t care,” Firanis completed.

“No. I don’t.”

With that, he shifted into an air elemental. Aniel immediately covered herself in shadows; Rekat unsheathed his dagger and Yarija squinted at Brian to focus; Bishop drew his bow and readied an arrow.

Firanis concentrated on the Silver Sword; she flung the pieces in Brian’s direction, but the air diverted all of them. Yarija sprinted towards the shifted druid and unleashed a powerful psionic explosion around him.

Brian dodged, the air elemental shape allowing him great speed. Aniel lurched out of the shadows to stab him from behind before hiding back in the darkness. Bishop’s arrows flew to Brian, but only a few hit. Rekat advanced, unnoticed, and landed a blow to Brian’s side; he quickly dodged the counterattack and struck again. They had to finish this fight soon, Firanis noted. She joined the melee attack with Rekat and Aniel, while letting Yarija use her psionic powers and Bishop his arrows from a distance.

She was almost out of breath and the curse weighted heavily upon her. In the end, it was Karnwyr, who, out of nowhere, struck Brian from behind and gave her the opening she needed. Firanis used the opportunity to lunged forward and buried the soul deep within Brian’s chest.

As he drew his last breath, Brian shifted back to his original form. In his eyes, Firanis saw nothing but relief. He had been dealing with the lack of emotions for some time, and perhaps he was glad to finally be able to rest. The curse was lifted and, upon finding a new resting place, settled itself on Firanis.

It was like a worm, squirming its way into her body until it found her soul. Firanis retched, her mind suddenly tasting of bile. The only thing that kept Firanis from losing consciousness right there and then was the little comfort she took from knowing that soon, this would all be over.

 

“You shouldn’t have come, Tyavain,” said Amaya when they stopped to let the horses and the ground troops rest.

“I had to,” Tyavain replied. “It’s my destiny. The Knower of Places told me as much.”

“But you refuse to share what she told you.” Her mother was mad, Tyavain realized. She thought Tyavain didn’t trust her.

“Mother-”

“Don’t _mother_ me!” Amaya berated. “You are risking your life here!”

“So are you,” stated Tyavain. “And you think I am not telling you anything out of distrust. I trust you, mother, I truly do, but this is something I cannot tell anyone.”

Amaya’s face softened. “Tyavain…”

“It’s just… I have been lost for so long, mother… I want to find myself now.”

Amaya looked at her, and her green eyes were filled with sadness. She turned away, leaving Tyavain alone in the middle of a crowd. Valen soon took her place, a massive hand falling on Tyavain’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t be so hard on your mother,” he admonished.

“I’m not being hard on mother.” Tyavain inhaled sharply through her nose. “I just wish she would stop asking questions. I _hate_ questions."

“Your mother is worried about you. She would calm down if you told her where you’re going next.”

Tyavain shook her head. “I can’t, father. It’s my own journey and… I really can’t.” Her voice shook. “I’m sorry.”

Valen tousled his daughter’s hair. “Don’t be. Your mother just needs to get used to your being as headstrong as she is.”

Tyavain smiled. “Don’t you want to ask me what I’m going to do afterwards?”

“No.” He squeezed her shoulder. “I know you hate questions.”

“Thank you, dad,” said Tyavain.

“I’m going to calm your mother down now. Be careful, will you?” Valen kissed Tyavain’s forehead and in that moment, she was so very glad she had him for a father. He was the perfect balance to her mother’s fiery, tempestuous personality. They were perfect for each other.

Their short resting time was up and soon they were once again riding towards Luskan. All the while, Tyavain kept going over what the Knower of Places had told her. She still didn’t quite fully understand it – in fact, the only part that was clear enough was that she had to help Firanis through this.

_At the end of her journey, you will find the beginning of yours. The place you belong to, - your place – will be hard to reach. It will take long, Tyavain. You will be faced with the infinity itself and you will have to make a choice which may not be the right one._

_But if you do choose right, you will find it. And finally, you will belong._

Tyavain spent hours mowing over those words, only stopping when they reached Luskan. The march was halted and the strike forces were organized. Tyavain jumped onto the ground and knelt; she buried her hands on the moist earth to feel its essence and brought a few grains to her nose to smell it.

Nevalle appeared by her side. “Tyavain.”

Tyavain closed her eyes, the question raising the volume of the taints in her head. Pursing her lips, she got up to her feet. She flexed her fingers repeatedly. She exchanged a glance with the knight and saw that, in his eyes, she was no longer a girl.

“I am ready,” she said.

Nevalle nodded and took a couple of steps back. Tyavain felt the word forming on her lips, complex, ancient words which she set free. The air wheezed. The earth rumbled. Before their eyes, the ground shifted and parted and the gates of Luskan were torn open.

The final battle had just begun.

 

The earthquake which signaled the beginning of the attack against Luskan was so strong Bishop nearly fell on his face. The walls of the city fell apart in the distance, just as Yarija had said they would, granting Firanis and the others entrance into the city.

“Well then, there’s our chance,” said Rekat. He looked at Firanis, obviously concerned. “You know there’s no way out once we get in.”

Firanis nodded, her gaze set on the crumbling walls. Bishop was expecting her to, but she didn’t turn to face him. “You’re free to go wherever you please,” she spoke lowly, as though she were afraid to break her voice if her speech was too loud. “There’s no one else left to hold you down.”

Millions of thoughts ran through Bishop’s mind then. Where to go next, what to do… and yet, the most prominent one was the most unwanted of all of them.

_Can’t I stay?_

“In that case, I guess I’ll just leave now,” he said instead. “Let’s go, Karnwyr.”

Much to his dismay, the wolf whimpered and slowly stalked away to lick Firanis’s fingers and rub its snout against the palm of her hand. However, it was much worse the Firanis’s lips lifted only slightly, but still gently, in response as she presented the dog with the gift of one last stare, “You’re a good boy, Karnwyr,” she whispered. “Take care of Bishop, will you?”

That was it, Bishop thought. Even his animal companion got more attention from Firanis than he did. It hurt, more than he had ever thought it would; the mere sight of her was pain and so Bishop didn’t even take one last look at Firanis before turning his back on her and walking away. He had fulfilled his part of the bargain and that was it.

He would never see her again. He didn’t doubt that.

Bishop shook his head; what was the use of lying to himself about her now? He didn’t care that everyone else hated his guts and wanted him gone; only Firanis mattered and she had saved him from a sure one-way trip to the gallows. Undoubtedly, if Firanis had asked, he _would_ have stayed. But she hadn’t and he had little choice but to go.

He was already deep into the woods when someone found him. The man was leaning against a tree as though he had been waiting for him and… The scarred face seemed familiar. Bishop brought his brows together, slightly confused.

“Did you think you could run from it?”

“Get the hell out of my sight,” Bishop growled.

“What is it you call yourself now? Bishop?” The man’s smile was lopsided. “Don’t you think it’s ironical we’ve been working for the same people for quite some time and have somehow, never met?”

That voice… Bishop remembered it from somewhere. “Who are you?” he asked.

“The question is who _you_ are.” The man reached for his scabbard. “You see, they call you _Bishop_ , but I remember you by a different name.” The man said it, that name, and it all came back to Bishop.

Redfallow’s Watch.

Bishop must have let his face drop, because Forlend laughed. “To think the man I wanted to see suffer was so close all along!” He drew his longsword and played with it. “You ruined my life, Bishop. You killed my wife, my daughter… everyone I cared for died in the flames you set upon our village. You just didn’t kill me and I resent you even more for that.” Forlend spat before pointing at his disfigured face. “To live with this face, this skin, after losing everything… There is no worst punishment than that.”

With his free hand, Forlend threw a small axe at Bishop, who barely had the time to dodge it. He threw another and this time it cut through the armor and grazed the top of Bishop’s arm. When the ranger looked up, he saw a sword thrusting in his direction. He rolled out of the way, but Forlend still managed a slice at Bishop’s side.

Before Forlend had time to strike again, Bishop punched him straight in the nose. Karnwyr locked his teeth around Forlend’s ankle. The man yelped and kicked, desperately trying to get rid of the dog and before he could plunge his sword deep into Karnwyr’s body, Bishop reached back into his quiver and, buried, with his hand, an arrow into Forlend’s throat.

In shock, the other man fell with his hands on his throat, trying in vain to hold on to life. Bishop watched as Forlend’s body collapsed in spasms. He remembered Forlend, but only slightly. He had not been all that bad – at least no more than anyone else. Everyone in Radfallow’s Watch had hated Bishop. After all, he had been nothing but a bastard child of one of their villagers. Still, when the time had come to let them all die as they deserved, he had told them to run instead.

But they had not believed him, and it had cost them their lives. They died because they refused to listen to him. Bishop did not regret setting that place on fire – he didn’t think he ever would, - but he realized now that he had only done it because he wanted to escape his past. And he had warned those people because he wanted their opinion of him to change. He had always been running from something and what it was exactly was finally becoming real.

Clutching his side, Bishop looked at Luskan, and his heart sped up.

He had been running for long enough. It was time to stop.

 

 

Firanis was panting when they hid behind the corner of a building for Rekat to examine their surroundings. They had watched in silence as the Zhentarim troops rallied for battle against the forces of Neverwinter and were now waiting for Rekat to tell them to move on.

His hand waved forward; one by one, they crept to the next building, Aniel’s shadows surrounding them. “This is odd,” the half-succubus commented.

“What is?” asked Firanis.

“There’s a battle outside and yet, it’s oddly quiet in here.” Aniel looked around. “It’s almost as though they’re setting up an ambush.”

“They are,” stated Yarija. “But not here.” She pointed at the Hosttower a couple of blocks away. “There.”

“We’ll go around the back, then,” proposed Rekat.

“No,” Firanis said. “It’s too obvious. They know we’re coming and I’m sure either Shemal or Ethlinn thought we’d spot their ambush.”

“She’s right,” Yarija agreed. “If we are going to make this work, we’ll have to split. We’ll also use your weakness to our advantage, Firanis.” At the aasimar’s nod, Yarija continued. “I’ll go with Firanis through the back; we’ll make it look like she cannot walk. Rekat and Aniel can go through the back and take care of whoever’s in there.”

Rekat and Aniel assented with their heads. Both vanished into the dark streets of Luskan while Yarija walked Firanis by the arm. The aasimar faked a limp and never lifted her eyes of the ground as though her head was much too heavy for her to look ahead.

When they got to Shemal’s tower, Ethlinn was there, waiting at the door. Firanis couldn’t see her face, but from the derisive tone she spoke with, she could guarantee Ethlinn was smirking. “You should have stayed, _sister_.” There was an ugly sort of emphasis to that last word which made Firanis gnash her teeth. “And _you_ , you little half-witted mongrel-”

“Shut up!” Yarija screeched. Her grip on Firanis’s arms was so strong it hurt.

Ethlinn giggled sharply. “You _know_!” she exclaimed with ecstatic delight. “Who told you? Her?” Firanis didn’t see, but she knew Ethlinn was referring to her.

“No. Ekeilma and Viss did.”

“Right, the lying Elan,” Ethlinn snorted. “Don’t worry, we’ll go after them after we’re done with you. Lying, conniving bitch, to think we actually had faith in you!”

“You. Faith.” Yarija laughed her bitterness. “Next time, you may want to show your faith somewhat differently, _mother_.”

Something came rolling on the floor, stopping at Ethlinn’s feet. Firanis looked up and was presented with a horrified expression from Ethlinn’s part. It was Prarg’s head, blood still dripping down the severed neck. The expression was short-lived, however, for Ethlinn soon kicked Prarg’s head out of the way. “So the other two came as well.”

Aniel struck with her daggers. Ethlinn escaped with a fluid cat-like spin, kicking Aniel in the shins in the process. Aniel quickly tumbled away just as Rekat lunged forward, aiming at Ethlinn’s chest.

Vines boomed out of the earth, trapping Rekat’s feet. Ethlinn made for his throat, a kukri materializing into her hands. Her blow was deflected by a psionic blast from Yarija. 

“You think to defeat me with three runts and a half-dead woman?” Ethlinn screamed. “You amuse me.”

Kalyt came running around the tower to join Ethlinn. Yarija projected another blast of energy, this time in Kalyt’s direction. Firanis moved forward, the Silver Sword of Gith in her hands. The sword broke into shards, which were sent flying ahead of Firanis. With her two kukris, Ethlinn deflected them. “Kalyt, distract those three,” she commanded. “Leave my sister to me.”

As she came towards her, Firanis noticed how fast Ethlinn was. She had trouble evading the first couple of Ethlinn’s attacks, and the third one slashed at her lower arm. Firanis lifted her sword to block a fourth and fifth blows.

The aasimar was finding it hard to breathe when Ethlinn’s foot caused her to lose balance. She threw the sword to the other hand to keep a kukri away from her body and she was flat-out lucky when Rekat came to her aid a moment later and stopped Ethlinn from stabbing her in the head.

With a hand on the ground, Firanis propelled herself forward while Ethlinn was too busy deflecting Rekat’s quick bouts. A kukri pierced Firanis’s shoulder and she felt it slice through to the other side. It still didn’t stop her from cutting off one of Ethlinn’s legs and sending her sister to the ground with her.

Despite Ethlinn’s struggles, Firanis fell on top, pining her sister down with her knees. Ethlinn tried to stab her in the back, but Firanis quickly ended her by sending the sword through Ethlinn’s neck.

For a moment, everything was black and Firanis had the urge to throw up. However, everything came back to her as, in a sudden movement, Rekat pulled her to her feet. Firanis noticed a half-drow and Felippa had joined Kalyt in her assault and Yarija and Aniel were at a disadvantage. He took the kukri out of Firanis’s shoulder, and the pain she was feeling was already so great that Firanis wouldn’t have known the kukri was there if she hadn’t seen Rekat removing it. “Go!” Rekat ordered. “Shemal will be at the top of the tower.”

“But-”

“We still have to take care of Kalyt, Vasjra and Felippa!” he shouted. “Just _go_ , Firanis! End this!”

Firanis obeyed.

The climb up the stairs proved tiring and draining. She could feel that the curse was almost done with her soul, and the magic she was using to sustain herself was almost drained. Still, she did not stop; while she had breath in her body she would fight that thing with everything she had and, before she could realize it, she was at the top.

There was only one door open. Resolute, Firanis went through it into a wide, broad room, decorated with a red carpet and gold-lined curtains. At the end of the room was a throne and, a few steps ahead of it, Shemal was awaiting her.

Firanis stopped, gathering her strength.       

“Come to me, sister.” Shemal extended a hand, invitingly. “You’re cold, I know it and _he_ won’t ever be able to warm you again. He’s not your true half; never deserved to be.”

Through all the darkness, Shemal’s words rung true; she _was_ cold now, colder than ever and even with half of the court room between them, she could feel his tempting heat brushing against her like a promising caress…

She took a step forward, hearing nothing but silence.

At the second step, Shemal’s perfect full lips smiled.

The third step made Firanis feel her face and hair wetting.

Four steps and the air around her melted into a pleasant warm mist.

When she took the fifth, the heat teased her skin.

Six, and Shemal’s dark blue eyes met hers, seductive. Her conscience flinched but her body did not.

And then, seven steps; everything was so silent to her ears but her mind kept screaming one name, the name of the person whose life was held frozen by her. 

It invoked an unknown power as she drew one step closer; a power which washed her of all darkness and made her feel pure; whole; loved.

The last step was the ninth, in which she stood right in front of Shemal. The darkness within her tugged, begging and yearning for him. He was still smiling in that breathtaking way of his, too much for her cold mind to refuse… She took a hand to his face and felt the warmth of it counterbalance her cold; she felt the scales shifting into balance as she caressed his well-defined jaw, the flesh of his lips. Shemal was too alluring to her, a fire in a winter night, solace to a weary traveler, light to darkness…

Another step and her chest grazed his torso; the world was so still for a moment, with only Shemal and her and her and Shemal…

There was his voice on her ear. “ _We_ are meant to be together. You are mine.”

When everything felt so perfect, she couldn’t argue. But even though Shemal had his arms clasped on her shoulders, there was still a trace of cold. Her body was hot, her darkness balanced… but her heart was still cold.

She wasn’t _his_. She wasn’t Shemal’s. And her heart, given to someone else long ago, knew it better than the rest of her flimsy, untrustworthy body. She remembered how it’d felt when it’d been Bishop’s hands merely scraping her bare skin, how it all had flared; she remembered him saying she was his and every inch of her body agreeing with it; unlike now. 

She drew back and spat at his feet. “I am not yours.”

Flames rose from all around the room to surround them; before she could see it, Shemal struck with a longsword and the impact of his blow was so mighty, Firanis reeled backwards, losing her balance, an opportunity Shemal seized to quickly kick her in the stomach. Firanis fell back, rolling swiftly out of the way of Shemal’s weapon.

Breathing heavily, Firanis made to get up, but Shemal’s foot fell on her shoulder, sending her back to the ground and effectively pinning her there. Firanis tried to slash at his leg, but her efforts were fruitless. Soon, Shemal had driven his sword through Firanis’s right arm and, with a yelp of acute pain, she dropped the Silver Sword of Gith.

On Shemal’s face, there was only his typically innocent, forbiddingly beautiful smile. “You should have chosen me, dear sister,” he crooned.

“I’d rather die alone,” Firanis was trying to sound proud and strong, but she knew that, if anything, she was only managing to appear bravely pathetic, as the pain in her arm was forcing tears out of her eyes and she was sure to be covered in dirt.

Shemal’s pure smile broadened into a corrupted grin. “Funny you should mention that. I don’t see – in fact, I don’t even smell – the ranger you so deeply love anywhere—”

Firanis had no time to wonder whether it was irony or simply fate, but before Shemal could finish his sentence, an arrow lodged itself in his arm and he turned to the direction it’d come from. In any other occasion, Firanis was sure he never would have committed that mistake; this time around, however, Shemal had been so perplexed that he’d allowed his gaze to slip from her to look at his other attacker rather than finishing Firanis off first.

It was in that exact split second that Firanis put all of her remaining magic into an eldritch blast, reached out for the Silver Sword of Gith with her left hand, get up and lurch forward against Shemal.

Firanis thought his flesh would present a little more resistance, but his abdomen was like butter through which the Silver Sword sliced. By then, Shemal’s attention was fully back on her and he was desperately trying to pull the sword out, grunting with effort. Firanis, however, wasn’t about to lose her control; with solid determination, she twisted her weapon, drawing a scream from Shemal’s lips just before she ignored all the hurt in her right arm and delivered a full eldritch blast right through Shemal’s heart.

Upon Shemal’s features, there were only lines of despair. Firanis didn’t let him sink; as his legs failed him, she grabbed him by the collar and looked at him, her jaw set so stubbornly it trembled.

Shemal was dying and he knew it; he did also know, unfortunately, what it meant for Firanis. He just couldn’t believe she had truly been aiming for that effect. “Are you… aware…” he stammered between bloody coughs. “Of what you’ve done?”

“I am,” Firanis replied.

Shemal chuckled, blood now also spurting out from his ears and nose. “Fool.”

That word was the last one Shemal uttered. Firanis felt snakes uncoiling in the pit of her stomach and closed her eyes to focus. The snakes expanded and she could almost _feel_ them reaching out of her body and into Shemal’s.

The moment she felt Shemal’s part of the curse, Firanis had to fight the bile rising in her throat; then, she willed that last fragment of the curse into her own body and it came along almost effortlessly; it was almost as though the curse was happy to finally have been put back together.

For a while, the world was brilliant and exquisitely lucid. Firanis could hear everything, see everything and appreciate how perfectly all the living things in the universe functioned. It was also during that time that she remembered the arrow and the _only_ person who could have thrown it. It was then, as she remembered Bishop, that the ideal state of mind she was in was shattered and the pain began.

It was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. When she’d been stuck in Fury’s heart, when she’d given birth to Ilwyn, when she’d been scared to death of losing her daughter… _Nothing_ had ever been compared to this. She could feel her soul shattering, imploding, being devoured from within and how her eldritch power was being squashed like a bug for trying to plug all the holes.

They were too many this time. No longer able to hold him, Firanis dropped Shemal’s corpse and tried to block out a little of that inevitable attack at the core of her being, just to make the pain a little easier to bear. She thought mainly of Ilwyn, who would have a bright future now, devoid of any curses. She would also not have a mother with her, but Firanis wagered it was a small price to pay. She thought of Ilwyn for a long time until somehow, she heard footsteps and turned.

Firanis did not know why, but the moment she had felt his presence, it had been impossible not to smile.

She turned slowly, smiling but… there was something wrong with her smile. It was sad. Blatantly, utterly _sad_. She held up a hand and examined it… Funny; her skin usually glowed dimly, but now… Now it was dull and shrinking, with the veins visible through it.

Someone stopped beside him; Bishop saw Firanis turn her gaze slightly to face that person; he did the same.

It was Yarija, whose cuts underneath the black tattoos were gone. Yarija, whose amber eyes were bulging out as if she didn’t want Shemal to be dead. That didn’t make sense; she hated him more than anything else, or so she’d stated several times. And she, somehow, _liked_ Firanis. She should be glad the aasimar was alive and the Shemal dead.

“Why?” Yarija simply asked, evidently trying to keep her voice from shaking but to no avail; Bishop could even swear there were tears in the borders of her eyes.

The ranger’s eyes fell on Firanis again and something within him _broke_ when she replied “Because I’m not him. Ilwyn is my only reason to live. Her life means everything to me, and if I have to die to make sure it’s untainted by this curse, then I will.”

She stumbled forward and Bishop ran, catching her in his arms, her blood on his hands and clothes as he held her close. He felt one of her hands feebly closing around his and the smile she’d been wearing all along changed to painful grimace as her body convulsed.

“Someone had to free you,” Firanis sputtered; her lips - which were becoming darker and darker - parted when she coughed out blood, “You, Rekat, Aniel… Ilwyn…” her gaze found Bishop’s when she’d said the name of their child; tears prickled her eyes and fell when she blinked. “Even Brian, Ethlinn and Shemal had to be freed from this curse… It’s not something anyone deserves and… none of them really chose to bear it.”

A yelp escaped Firanis’s lips. Blood began tainting her garments at the arms and torso. Bishop held her tighter, one hand under her back and the other cupping one side of her face, desperate and shaky.

“Neither did you,” he heard Yarija say but she seemed to be in another dimension. All Bishop could pay attention to was Firanis whose breath was going shallower at each passing moment…

“No. But I,” Firanis choked before she could spit out more blood. “I never said… life was fair now… did I, Yarija?” She took a sharp, deep breath, almost like a sob before she met Bishop’s eyes again. Even through all that pain, she still managed to give him a little smile. “And I… I got what I asked for…”

Bishop felt that his tongue was stuck to the top of his mouth; he was unable to speak, unable to do anything but _stare_ as she hurt and died. When her hand came up to his face, sticky with blood, all of him trembled.

He realized he didn’t want to believe Firanis was dying. He didn’t want this to be real…

“I just…” Firanis swallowed the lump on her throat, her fingers soft silk against his coarse stubble, so different from her raspy voice wedging through the foggy layers of his mind. “I just asked… for more time with… you. More… time with Ilwyn. And I got it, I got… it… but…” her lips trembled and more tears sprang free from her eyes.

Still, Bishop couldn’t find his voice. He wanted to speak to her, to comfort her but he didn’t know how. He had specialized in scathing remarks to keep people at bay that now that he wanted someone to stay with him he had no words.

Firanis hissed. “Why does it… seem so… short? Why… Bishop?”

The ranger was only vaguely aware that more people had approached them and that the hand and arm he had behind Firanis’s back were now drenched in blood. He just couldn’t force himself to look away from that smile she wore for him…

No, this was all a bad dream. _Firanis_ couldn’t be dying. Not her. Not after all she’d been through. No, people like her always made it through, lived to see the celebrations and to win a big prize for saving the nation. They just didn’t _die_.

Her hand dropped to his chest, resting above where his heart beat. Firanis made a sound which would have been a laugh, hadn’t it been so choked and dry. “Don’t be afraid… I’ll… always… be with… you. So will… Ilwyn. And I’m sorry… so… sorry… I wanted… more… too. I wanted… so much more.”

At last, one final tear slid from her eyes and she breathed no more.

Her body blackened and grew translucent. He shouted something in despair – most likely her name – and tried to lift her head but his hand slid right through it and he could not see her anymore. In Firanis’s place were many lights of various colors. Bishop’s eyes followed them as they rose up into the sky.

After they had vanished, Bishop was still looking.

He did nothing but look for a very long, long time while kneeling in the dirt, arms still spread because his body refused to catch up with what his eyes had seen. Bishop was not certain of who it was who lifted him up but when they did, the sky was already dark and his arms were still empty.

He had his words now and they were useless, for of Firanis, the only thing which remained were her tears, still frozen on his hands.

 

 

 

 


	20. Reprise: The Full Circle

**_Reprise_ **

_In billowing robes of white silk, she approached the couple. “I think you should end this.”_

_The woman fixed her wintry eyes on the newcomer, her stare as frozen as her voice. “Why are you here? This has nothing to do with you.”_

_“You played with my son. I think it has a lot to do with me,” the newcomer turned away from the other woman to glare at the man. “Your Queen does not deserve this. You can end this and end it well.”_

_Then, in the same ethereal way she’d come, she left._

_There was silence between the two once again as he fiddled with the piece of his Queen – still all virgin white except for her left breast, dark and tainted. His adversary’s pieces had changed, too. The Gray Bishop remained that color, too indomitable to ever be controlled, but he had now been joined by the former Black Knights and Rook and his own White Bishop._

_No one was happy. And what was worse, he’d begun this game with Auril just to save one of his truest followers from her._

_“Mortals like happy endings, don't they?” he asked aloud._

_She shrugged, the gesture stiff and hostile; her losing the match still was an obvious bother to her. “Like I care.”_

_He closed his eyes; his voice was pensive. “I think they do, Auril.”_

_“And I said I did not care, Ilmater!” Auril spat back at him._

_Ilmater looked in her direction, but not_ _at her. “We played with them and yet, none of them got what they wanted. In the end, no one got a happy ending. Not your black soldiers; not my white forces; not even the free gray. They are all hurting.”_

_When he began to walk away, Auril asked, “Where are you going?”_

_He turned and_ _then, he did look at her, a strange, bittersweet smile on his face. He did not reply... And Auril never really needed to hear it. Because she knew that Ilmater was going to do what he did best._

_Taking one final glance at the chess tray, she pushed it, the pieces falling onto the floor with muted “thumps”._

_Breathing heavily, she began walking away, in the direction opposite to the one Ilmater had taken._

_She'd better get to what she did best as well._

 

**Twenty**

_The Full Circle_

 

From before she had finally given up the struggle to stay alive, Firanis didn’t remember much. Unfortunately for her, the little she recalled was the searing pain, splitting her skin and shaping it anew, her soul struggling to escape the dark void which threatened to consume it and, amidst it all, Bishop’s face and his warm, warm embrace which she never wanted to leave again…

She thought she would die there and then and she’d been ready for it. There had been nowhere else she’d rather be.

Then, like thunder falling from the sky, she’d been ripped off Bishop’s arms and thrown into a cold lake. She tried to kick her legs and swim but all her strength had vanished and she couldn’t even muster enough of it to open her eyes.

She was falling… falling…

Fresh, pure air invaded her lungs at once; there was a distant impression of someone calling her, someone familiar…

_“Why are you here?” a high-pitched, chirpy voice popped out of nowhere. He looked up and saw a very small, slender girl staring down at him, incomprehension marking her round face. She extended a hand, pointing at the bonfire in the middle of the town and spoke again. “The festival is over there.”_

_He had no idea how this little whelp had managed to find him when no one else could. He was god at hiding – even better when he was in the woods. Not even his parents could find him when he didn’t want to and yet… He was going to give her some sharp remark – hopefully one which would make her cry and go away – but something in him noticed the girl_ shone _in the dark and instead of driving her away…_

_“You shine,” he ungraciously blurted out._

_“I do.”_

_“Why?”_

_She shrugged. “I just do.” She bent forward, her big and wide eyes intently set on him. “You didn’t answer me. Why are you here?”_

_Bishop grunted. “I just am.”_

_“You don’t like the festival?”_

_“No, I don’t,” he gloomily replied. “And I can’t sing.”_

_She frowned. “You don’t have to sing well to participate in the festival.” She crossed her arms and pouted in a manner so cute it almost made her tolerable. “If you had, I’d never be allowed to open my mouth. Plus,” she held up a small, thin finger, “you_ can _sing. That’s how I found you.”_

_When he said nothing, she asked “What’s your name?” with a smile on her lips._

_“What for? You won’t remember me – no one does. Not even my parents.”_

_At this, she seemed almost insulted. “I swear, I will always remember you!”_

 

Bishop woke up with a bang, cold sweat covering his body. He took his hands to the sides of his head and pressed, hoping to ease a bit of the constant headache. When it failed, Bishop thought of his dream that wasn’t truly a dream but a memory returned; a memory of _her_.

He had thought Duncan had stolen his freedom when he had nursed him back to health after Redfallow’s Watch. He had hated the man so much for saving his life and even more when he’d forced him to accompany Firanis as payment. Now, however, Bishop saw that particular chain of events as the most important one in his life because if joining Luskan’s elite assassination squad, destroying his home village as a trap to the Luskans and nearly dying in process were what he had to go through to meet _her_ … He would do everything again and again so as long as he could guarantee Firanis would be there at the end.

She wasn’t, though, and she would never be there. Firanis was _dead_ , her body gone, vanished off the face of Faerûn. He had seen it, he had felt it and yet… he still believed she would be back.

 

 

Ilwyn sat in a corner, hugging her knees tightly, humming a song which echoed in the empty hallways.

Her mother…

When they’d returned, their faces were grim, shadowed, gloomy. Aunt Neeshka kept staring ahead, without any of the characteristic brightness shining on her gaze… Aunt Elanee was crying… Aunt Zhjaeve too and aunt Zhjaeve _never_ lost hold of her emotions… that had been when Ilwyn understood something was indeed _wrong_ , that the cutting, sharp pang on her chest hadn’t been just a _coincidence_.

Her mother…

Uncle Khelgar’s hands had been flaccid, powerless and he’d barely been able to stand on the horse; Grobnar’s face, usually so cheerful and full of life was morose, twisted, _saddened_ in a way she couldn’t describe; uncle Ammon cursed under his breath as if he were angry at something… and Casavir… Uncle Casavir’s mask had dropped, like aunt Zhjaeve’s, but in him it showed despair and disbelief.

 _Her_ mother…

Almost out of breath, Ilwyn asked to be taken to the place her mother had last been seen. She didn’t believe – she _refused_ to believe her mother was truly gone. It was uncle Ammon who took her there, to the room that smelled of burned stone and cloth, right at the top of a tower.

He was there – her father, kneeling on the floor, looking up at the charred ceiling. Upon his face, no emotions were engraved; he was wholly blank, monotone, limiting himself to just stare up.

Fearfully, Ilwyn approached him. He didn’t move – in fact, she wagered he didn’t even acknowledge her presence. She sat in front of him and noticed that one of his hands was grasping something hard. Ilwyn forced his hand open, and her father offered no resistance.

On the palm of his hand were a couple of solid droplets; Ilwyn took one between her thumb and forefinger and cold instantly spread through her body. First, Ilwyn reacted by letting her tears fall; then, her breath became irregular, frantic, even.

It was only when she started screaming that the full impact of her mother’s death hit her.

 

 

Three months after Shemal had been defeated, Tyavain sat with a chess tray in front of her.

Sighing, she tipped the Queen from the white side. It made no sense; none whatsoever. She kept on searching for a way out, but she found none. _Her_ _own_ way out was supposed to be clear, but she couldn’t find it!

With a violent swing, Tyavain threw the chess tray and all its pieces onto the floor. The voices relished on her actions, and started to scream louder and louder and louder…

A hand fell on her shoulder. Tyavain turned to see her aunt Amianna, with her clear amber eyes calmly set on her. “Your mother is worried about you,” she said.

“She always is.”

“Tyavain…”

“I just don’t get it!” Tyavain squeaked. “I helped Firanis complete her journey! I was supposed to know where to go next! Why don’t I?”

“Because sometimes, Tyavain, we just _think_ something has ended.”

Tyavain threw her hands up. “No. It cannot be that.” She breathed in as though to calm herself. “I need to think somewhere else. Tell mother not to be worried, will you?”

She didn’t even wait for her aunt’s agreement to leave the room. Tyavain was furious at everything – and, mostly, she was furious with herself. Amianna noticed as much and, without knowing what else to do, she decided it was best she got someone who did.

 

 

“When I was younger, people told me tales. None of them ended with the death of the protagonist.”

“Not even you want to believe she’s dead, Aniel?”

She shrugged. “I never believed in heroes, but she… She was…” Aniel wrapped her arms around herself, hesitating. “She was different, Rekat. Firanis was not the person I thought was going to die when this whole thing ended.”

Rekat pensively looked at Aniel and lifted a hand to tenderly palm the side of her face. She closed her eyes at his touch, enjoying how it warmed her whole body.

“I do not think she’s dead, Aniel,” Rekat confessed after a while. Aniel’s eyes shot open and she stammered a “What?”

“I have discussed it with Yarija and it makes sense, if you think about it long enough. What Firanis did… She did it for us,” Rekat said. “She broke the circle and took the entire curse into herself. Nobody would have been able to withstand such a great amount of negative energy and she should have died instantly… Except that she didn’t. Firanis hung on and rather than dying, she vanished.”

“The elf mage said it was because the negative energy corroded the body and turned it to dust.”

“That would have had to be gradual and it wasn’t what happened. Yarija said Firanis’s skin began darkening and that her whole body just disappeared when it should have crumbled.”

“And Bishop? Didn’t Firanis die in his arms?” Aniel asked.

Rekat shook his head and sighed. “I haven’t been with him after the battle but word is, Bishop hasn’t spoken a word ever since that day.”

Aniel bit down her lip and whispered, “Firanis once told me it was painful to love someone and I know now she was right. Bishop has got to the point where just hating is not enough to cover up all his feelings for her. Firanis’s death evoked so many things inside him that he’s gone into shock because he can’t deal with them all.”

“Bishop cannot run anymore,” Rekat completed.

Aniel nodded. “Firanis did know what she was saying. We cannot run forever; life has a tendency of eventually catching up.” Taking Rekat’s face in her hands, she planted a brief kiss on his lips. “I’m glad I’ve stopped running while I could. I would have survived without you, Rekat, but…”

“I’d always feel like there was something missing,” whispered Rekat.

Aniel smiled. “Yes. But we turned back in time.”

Rekat gave her back the smile she so dearly loved. It gave Aniel nothing but joy to see it and, deep down in a hidden corner of her heart, she wished Firanis was alive so she could have this kind of happiness as well.

She _was_ the hero after all, wasn’t she?

 

 

Yarija sat on the study with Ekeilma and Viss. Now that the curse and Shemal were wholly gone, she felt… she didn’t quite have a way of naming how she felt exactly, but the closest she had got was _relieved_. Yes, relieved that he no longer would be able to haunt her.

“I cannot leave yet,” Yarija confessed. “It feels as though something remains unfinished.”

Ekeilma sighed. “It’s been _three_ months, Yarija. We do not need to remind you that you need to resume your _proper_ training as quickly as possible, do we? These last few years have taken a toll on your mind.”

“Please, Ekeilma.” Yarija said. “If anything, living amidst all those plots and counter-plots has quickened my wit.”

“Your _wit_ is not your _mind_ ,” Ekeilma corrected.

Yarija rolled her eyes and Viss thought it best to intervene before their argument got out of hand, as it typically did with people are strong-minded as Yarija and Ekeilma. “Yarija can stay for a little while longer,” he stated. “You are finally free from your hunter, Yarija. You should savor that.”

Ekeilma grumbled, but she did not argue. “We will come back later, then,” she said and, without adding anything else, they were off.

It was typical for the Elan to act that way. Most of them were so self-absorbed and in love with their own minds that they forgot about common decorum and basic etiquette. Still, Yarija preferred those to the pretentious mannerisms noblemen and women adopted in the court. She would take aloof over snob in a heartbeat – after all, she was aloof as well.

From the other side of the wall came the sound of footfalls. Yarija looked at the door, watching as it creaked open. She looked at him, puzzled. Rimal was different; the aura of hatred and darkness that had surrounded him was gone, and had been replaced by one of light and kindness.

“You’re not selfish at all, Yarija,” his voice was soft when he finally managed to speak.

“I am, Rimal.”

The realization his mind had hit was heavy and tiring but it somehow shed light into his mind. For the first time since he had questioned his faith, Rimal beamed. “No, Yarija. You’re different, true, but not in a bad sense.”

Yarija’s mouth was parted in astonishment as she tried to come up with the right words to say; she licked her dry lips. “Rimal…”

He took both her hands in his. He smiled at her, and it was beautifully radiant. “I called you such horrible things and yet, in my darkest times, it was you who shed the light. I was wrong, Yarija. I can see it now. That strange vibration I got whenever I was near you, it wasn’t evil. It was me failing to recognize something different; something… amazing. It was me unable to see you for what you are, and labeling everything with stereotypes.

“My feelings were misplaced – they have been so all along, but now… Now I see it.” His eyes shone and his grip on her hands tightened. “Because you, Yarija… you just happen to be nothing short of extraordinary.”

Misplaced. Yes, that was what had happened to her somewhere down the line. She had been misplaced and, along with her, so had her feelings.

She should have seen it the first time, but the weight of the curse and sheer fear had blinded her. She could see it now, however, and she could see that she, too, had been wrong. The feelings she’d had for Brian… those had merely been there because of the curse, whereas the feelings she had for Rimal… She had wished for one person who would want her; it felt so foolish now, when she knew who that one person was. She had met him long ago.

Her heart throbbed. Yarija trembled, and she understood that she was doing so out of fear.

“I… I have to leave with Ekeilma and Viss soon,” she whispered, looking down at the floor. But if she had hoped this would make Rimal less enthusiastic, she was soon disappointed. Rimal’s determination seemed to have only grown as his hands moved to her shoulders; he brought her an inch closer to him and Yarija, almost out of sheer impulse, looked up at him again.

Rimal was beaming. “I will wait for you.  No matter for how long, Yarija, I will _always_ wait for you.”

His sentence made the few remaining clouds of doubt disappear. She wished there hadn’t been any misplaced feelings. She wished she – no, they – had seen it sooner.

Her one person… he was right in front of her.

 

 

Amianna, with whom Nevalle had spoken two times at the most had come to him and asked him to please go look for Tyavain. Although the request had left him slightly uncomfortable, - not because of Tyavain herself but because Amianna was asking, - Nevalle had agreed to it.  After all, he and Tyavain had talked often after returning from the battle, and he had no doubts as to where she was.

As he’d predicted, Tyavain stood still, at the top of the tower, her hair flicking wildly to the left side, like flames dancing in the wind, her eyes looking forward into the golden sky.

Somehow, she knew he was there. “Say, Nevalle,” Tyavain began, neutral and calm. “I was supposed to have found my way. I have not.” She smiled, but the smile was devoid of any happiness. “It cannot end like this, can it?”

His arms cringed as a hasty ache seemed to take Nevalle over. He wanted to comfort her, to ease her fears and, without a thought, he hugged her from behind; he was not expecting it, but he was relieved when Tyavain let her head drop behind, supporting it on the nape of his neck. “It _won’t_ , Tyavain. I promise.”

She should have felt comforted. Yet, when everything in her mind should have remained warm and soothed, the taints rose, desperate, doomed screams hammering at her skull, threatening, pleading, enthralling, destroying… Only years of restraint saved Tyavain from crumbling right there and then, under the devastating power and curse of her mixed heritage.

Those years however, were not enough to stop the tears from falling down her cheeks; she felt Nevalle gently brushing them away but it was like a faint echo.

 _He will die, little fledgling…_ the Baatezu hissed.

 _We all die eventually,_ Tyavain shot back at it, hoping her attack would make the voices shut up. They’d never found the strength to reach her when she was with Nevalle, so why now?  Why?

 _Lies, child, and you know it_ , the Tanar’ri now spoke, its call a distorted cacophony, _You won’t ever die. You shall be ours one day and with us you will remain forever—_

 _It is with_ us _you will spend eternity with!_ The Baatezu angrily roared. _But he is not your pillar. He will die and it shall be_ us _who take him from you!_

Tyavain’s mind splintered and cracked when the Tanar’ri tried to outcome the Baatezu. _Listen to them not! He will pass away by_ our _hand and then you will come with us where you belong!_

The tiefling was only vaguely aware that, somewhere in the outer shell of her body, she was screaming. She knew, too, that Nevalle was holding her, consoling her but she _felt_ nothing.

She was the Twice-Damned. She was the Homeless. But at the moment, the one who she was the most was the Unbelonging.

_… Our dream ended long ago…_

And, as suddenly, as they’d come, the Taints left, leaving the empty space of Tyavain’s mind behind, desolate and torn with this new discovery and shaken at the knowledge they’d come to fill it again. Yet… something else lingered as well.

In the circle of Nevalle’s arms, she turned; gathering his face in her trembling hands, Tyavain, looked up. Her sight became blurry as she looked at his face, with all the features so perfectly drawn he looked more like an ideal figure pictured by an artist than a being of flesh and blood. So handsome and brave and loyal… he would surely be devastated when…

No, she would not think about it now. She still had time. And however little it might seem, Tyavain would not tarnish it.

Her lips smiled but her eyes refused to. She was crying when she kissed him, soft and terrified. At first, Nevalle was stoic, quiet… but then his arms tightened around her and she could only cry harder as the kiss deepened. She never wanted them to part, never wanted the kiss to end…

It felt so right… Why couldn’t it become real as well?

When Tyavain finally pulled away, her heart was so heavy with sorrow its beats had slowed down. Nevalle’s jaw was slack, his eyes blinking… yet despite his visible surprise, he didn’t let go of her, making what she was about to do all the more hurtful…

“It will be in a day of tears and mourning…” she whispered.

“What?” Nevalle asked.

Tyavain shook her head, sniffing. “I’m sorry, Nevalle,” she took one his hands from around her waist and brought it to her face, the simple, unfettered warmth of his touch causing a sad smile to bloom on her lips. “I stole something I had no right to. Please forgive me.”

Oh, she was so selfish. She’d always known she’d have to leave Nevalle but still, she got involved because she wanted to be _just_ Tyavain for a little while longer. Tyavain was astounded she had the will to untangle his arms off of her; if Nevalle had been surprised before, than now he was being completely taken aback. As she began to walk away from him, he seized her hand; her whole body tingled, hoping for more. And she wanted to give in, how she _wanted_ …

“Tyavain…”

Yes. _Tyavain_ wanted to stay. But Tyavain was also Twice-Damned, Homeless and Unbelonging. And so, Tyavain also had to go.

She shook her arm off of his grasp “It’s said that when you stand at the edge of the world, all your questions will be answered,” she began in an awfully calm, neutral voice. “I wanted to know if it was true, but how can you stand at the edge of a world which is round?”

Nevalle took a step towards her. “Which questions do you need answered, Tyavain?”

He saw the corners of her mouth lift in a pained smile, but she just kept staring off into the horizon without even muttering a reply. The wind playfully wheezed, as if it were chanting around her static figure; Nevalle saw the sky turning to a golden color which darkened the further he looked down… and he also noticed Tyavain’s lips moving, although he hear no sound coming from them.

It looked like an abyss… an endless abyss in which one would always be falling without even reaching the bottom.

Her voice became clearer, no longer in a language Nevalle did not know. “Is it possible to love someone without even meeting them?”

His brown eyes bulged out of their sockets; this was unexpected. “Why do you ask?”

She took a hand to her chest; the sound of a deep breath reached his ears. “I’ve been asking myself this for a long, long while, Sir Nevalle and neither of the voices answered me. Whenever it popped, they went quiet, possibly afraid to give me a clue towards… balance.

“I understand now that to reach that said balance, there’s something I have to do,” Tyavain realized.

“At the edge of the mind, go forth and think.” Tyavain said. “At the edge of feelings, go forth and love. At the edge of the world…” she stopped and turned her head to look at him from the corner of her eyes while smiling, gently, softly.

Nevalle’s true name was, at the same time, sweet and bitter on her tongue. Once the lyrical flow of those syllables Tyavain found it so delicious, so temping, she would make sure she would not need to use it again.

“We are just friends, Sir Nevalle. I will miss you.” He released her hand, the magic breaking apart and reshaping his mind anew. Tyavain stepped on top of the balustrade of the balcony and added. “Live your life, Nevalle. And remember…

“When at the edge of the world, go forth and jump.”

And she jumped.

A moment after, the Knight blinked. He searched for Tyavain, whom he could had sworn had been here moments ago and now was… gone.

Something deep in him stirred, almost as if telling him he was forgetting something yet when he probed his mind for it, found nothing.

_“I stole something I had no right to…”_

He remembered her saying that, vaguely. Maybe He’d been so absorbed in staring at the beautiful sky at the cliff before and the girl had gone back to the Keep to return that thing she’d taken.

Nevalle shrugged. Tyavain was a strange one anyway and the power she had… it made him uneasy. Where had she gone to anyway?

As they caused his head to hurt, Nevalle tried to dismiss all thoughts of her and yet that strange nagging at the back of his skull remained, hinting at something he had failed to recall. But whenever Nevalle tried to find what it was, it slipped from his grasp and he was left with nothing but Tyavain’s foggy _“I stole something I had no right to…”_

Soon, he gave up on attempting at unraveling that mystery

But the feeling… it remained there for a long, long while.

 

 

“She’s come back,” Eleste said. “As I had seen, everything came full circle.”

“This is where she’s bound to,” Guerryn stated. “After the curse was gone, both her soul and her blood would always bring her here. We knew it; and she did too.”

“But the curse is not gone,” Eleste spoke lowly. “She took it all upon herself and became that which your son was before he began defragmenting the little pieces of himself which both protected and harmed him. She knows that too – just as she does know that she’s not truly dead yet.”

“But she’s dying.”

“Yes,” Eleste confirmed before sighing. “I don’t think even we can save her this time.”

“Phethys says there’s a chance,” the deva insisted.

“She says so because she doesn’t want to trash your hopes!” she exclaimed. “Savras, Guerryn, I swear sometimes you really are dense.”

Guerryn’s orange brows came down in a frown. “devas do not lie, Eleste.”

Eleste snorted, an attitude which was very unlike her, and smirked. “Have you forgotten Trias?”  

“No, although I hate it when you’re reminded of him; he lied because he fell—”

“And he’s fallen no longer. Raziel himself said so. Trias was forgiven. By a shattered-minded Hellspawn but still… he’s been forgiven.”

The smile Guerryn gifted her with was so sad it didn’t even touch his eyes. “Then why can’t my granddaughter be forgiven as well?”

“Because she regrets nothing of what she’s done and therefore, she has nothing to be forgiven for,” Eleste touched her hand to Guerryn’s arm. “Either way, Guerryn… It wouldn’t be forgiveness that would have saved her.”

“Did you see that?”

She looked down and removed her hand from where she’d placed it. “What I say, I say from experience. I can see no longer.”

Gently, he trapped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head back up. “Eleste—”

It was Eleste’s turn to smile but unlike Guerryn’s, hers was one of acceptance and comfort. “I acted when I could not. I gave Firanis that ring fully knowing this punishment would befall me should she ever wear it.”

“But-”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Eleste interrupted. “Just… just know that I’m glad it happened.” She took his arm and walked, bringing him along with her. “Let us go see her, shall we?”

Firanis was still lying on the bed, her skin rotting and black. She was decaying before their eyes and when Phethys, who had been examining her when they’d arrived, looked up, Guerryn knew that saving his granddaughter was out of their reach.

“Good news is she’s awake,” Phethys was speaking lowly so that only Guerryn and Eleste heard her. “It’s only her eyes that are closed; her eyelids are so swollen it takes a lot of effort to keep them open.”

Guerryn exhaled; then inhaled; then exhaled again. Phethys opened her mouth to speak again, “Also, Melynia has requested a visit to your granddaughter.”

“She’s here?” Guerryn asked.

“Yes. Can I tell her to come in?”

“Please,” it was Firanis who was speaking, her voice as feeble as cracked glass. “Let me talk to her alone.”

Although he was a little bit heartbroken by her request, Guerryn did as she asked. Melynia passed by him in a hurry and shut the door to the room, barring anyone from even listening to them.

Firanis tried to open her eyes to see how angry Melynia was at her, but it hurt too much and she had to do so just by listening how her shiradi trainer crossing the room to sit on a chair by the window.

“You did the exact opposite of what I advised,” Melynia chastised. “Such stubbornness hidden behind that gentle face, Firanis; I wouldn’t believe it was there if I’d not experienced it myself beforehand.”

Firanis tried to speak, but no sound came from her dry lips. Melynia must have noticed it, for she promptly brought a glass to Firanis’s lips. Firanis was truly thirsty, but her throat was too sore and she could only take a couple of sips from the water. “I’m sorry, Melynia, but I had to do it.”

“No, you did not.” The shiradi sighed. “And in order to realize it, we’ll use the fact that _you_ have trouble keeping your eyes open, to meditate.”

“You’re such a demanding teacher, Melynia,” Firanis dully complained, but complied. However, in her current state, it wasn’t easy to focus. She could _smell_ her putrid skin and even though she could not move, her joints ached. She could also tell from how light her head felt that she had no hair.

Firanis didn’t get it. Everything was repeating itself and she was back to the place where she had been rescued from death eight years ago – the only difference was that _this_ time around, she did indeed want to die.

So why hadn’t she?

“Sometimes, it takes an experience to erase other experiences.” Melynia blithely said.

“Aren’t you supposed to have your eyes closed?”

“I can _feel_ your distress from here, Firanis. It’s so thick I can almost touch it.”

“Are my feelings that tangible?”

“Your face is twisted in agony. It’d take a fool not to notice.”

Firanis finally managed to open her eyes to look, at last, at the shiradi. “You know me better than I do.”

“Like I said… I spent eight years with you; a good teacher is bound to know her students… and sometimes, because she is not clouded by their feelings, she can answer their questions better than her students can.” Melynia explained. “So, what pains you aside from what we’ve discussed before?”

“It’s not important.” Firanis lied. “I thought… he would be fine even if I died. That he would move on… but… I may have made the worst misjudgment of my entire life. ”

“Of whom? Ilwyn’s father?”

Firanis was taken aback. This woman was _definitely_ shrewd; she’d suspected it for the last eight years, but right now… Melynia was being too accurate. As if today would _indeed_ be their last day together and she wanted to make sure Firanis was physically and emotionally prepared to leave.

“Yes,” the aasimar reluctantly confessed. “Him.”

“Tell me, then.”

She wasn’t asking and frankly, Firanis didn’t see what harm there was in telling her; the shiradi would eventually find out anyway. “I was very naïve when I met him; thought he’d change for me but well… most people aren’t willing to change for anyone.”

“Some do. You did. For Ilwyn. For your friends.”

Firanis bit into her lip. “Did I?”

“You became stronger for them; more responsible, too; and dedicated, like you’re ready to make any sacrifice in order to thank them for never leaving you alone.” Melynia nudged her head towards the aasimar. “But go on,” she insisted.

“Bishop… I guess you can say his original personality was twisted so much barely anything of it remained to be salvaged. Over the years, the boy I met in Redfallow’s Watch had changed so much those changes were irrevocable. It took me eight years away from him, in the Planes, to realize that when I first met him again.

“After that… I was no longer shy. I did what I’d done in those last moments at the Vale of Merdelain. I felt cornered by his betrayal, so I bit – and I bit hard. I confronted him and in doing so… Everything I’d felt for him came back again. But I was stupid, Melynia, so stupid, that in resisting my own feelings I ended up forsaking everything I believed in.

“In the end, I became what Bishop had been.

“If, in the first time I fell for him I cared so much he seemed like a whole different person...” Firanis felt a sudden surge of tears welling up in her eyes, but it was difficult to shed them with her lids closed ; how was it that it suddenly hurt to speak of Shandra? “The second time was much worse because I _knew_. I knew the extent of where he would go if he felt _stuck_ to me and I did not care. I dealt with it, accepted it and looked past it. I was foolish but I…”

Upon her hesitation, Melynia intervened. “You loved him again.”

Slowly and almost painfully, Firanis gave her a nod in reply. “I never told him, though. I don’t believe you have to be told to know someone loves you; it lingers on their gestures, sparkles on their eyes and hangs on their voice.”

“What did you see in him, then?”

Her lips curled into a crooked, reminiscent smile. “Uncertainty; fear… lust… and will you think me selfish if I say love was also there?”

“You’re not selfish, Firanis, not truly.”

“Then yes, there was love. Whenever I stared at his eyes, it would be there; smothered and denied but still… love.”

“Did your friends know?”

“No, I don’t think they did – in the beginning, at least,” Firanis said. “But after everything – especially after Ilwyn’s kidnapping – I think they began to accept it, some more grudgingly than others. I am glad that, at least, I got to see that happen before I died.”

“And _after_ that? He held you as you tried to reign in the curse, did he not? What did you see?”

Firanis’s hands trembled; a wave of sadness – stronger than she’d ever felt before – submerged her in its sea and, in a drowning voice, Firanis whispered, “Despair. True fear and an unfettered… true… love… crushed.”

Much to Firanis’s surprise, Melynia gently grasped one of aasimar’s hands in both of hers. “Ah, my student,” the shiradi whispered, “truly an Ilmatari to the heart. Why can’t you be a little selfish like I asked you to be?”

“Melynia—” Firanis’s words were stopped by a finger on her lips.

“I know what you’re going to say, girl. _But I have been selfish, Melynia and look how it turned out!_ No, you have not been selfish, Firanis, not in that way. If you’d been, you would not be here right now; you’d be alive. But you chose to sacrifice yourself for your blood family, however rotten and undeserving they were, and here you are, in the very same bed you awoke in the last time you came to this plane. Every pattern repeated, every choice made a second time…

“Don’t you think it’s time you broke this neat little circle of yours?”

The aasimar frowned as deeply as her withered stated allowed her. “I dug my own grave in this one. I’ve got no one to blame but myself.”

For the very first time since she’d been with her shiradi Master, Firanis saw Melynia’s patient features contort in anger. “Firanis,” she whispered between deep breaths. “Let’s just pretend there’s no one else in the Multiverse right now. No one to blame you, no one to judge you; it’s just me and you and all the things we do.”

Until Firanis nodded – which she took a long time to – Melynia didn’t proceed with her logic. “Good,” the shiradi said. “Now you’re going to tell me how you truly feel.”

Firanis’s eyes opened only slightly for her to stare at the other woman. Then she turned away and whispered, “It’s just… after everything I’ve been through, it feels a little unfair that I never got my chance…” she stopped, gulping down the heavy lump which had formed on her throat. “To be with him. And my daughter. And everyone else as a normal person would.”

Melynia squeezed her hand harder as tears began streaming down her cheeks. “I want them back,” Firanis admitted between light, minor sobs. “I want to _go_ back.”    

“I know…” Melynia brushed her fingers across Firanis’s forehead. “That’s why I called someone who can.”

At that, someone sat on her bed.

Firanis, at great effort, opened her eyes, expecting either Melynia or Guerryn but who she found there was none of them.

Indeed, it wasn’t even someone from the Upper Planes.

“Hello, Firanis,” Tyavain greeted with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Tyavain? Weren’t you supposed to-”

“Not yet,” the tiefling said. “My journey begins where yours ends, Firanis. Remember?”

“But-”

Firanis was silenced when Tyavain placed a finger on each of her eyelids to close her eyes. “You are not done. You still linger because everyone still believes in you,” Tyavain explained softly. “Both your old and new companions, your daughter, Yarija, Rekat… even Aniel.”

“I thought she hated me,” Firanis whispered with a smile.

“Ah, Firanis… weren’t it for you, she and Rekat would never have been what they are now – and that has been her deepest wish all along. How could she hate you? Everyone still believes you will return and, as someone taught me long ago, _belief_ is the one thing that can change the Multiverse; it can even go as far as changing the nature of a man.

“And because some believed… it happened.”

Tyavain removed her hand and, from the rustle of the bed sheets, Firanis could feel her getting up. She turned her head to gaze at Tyavain, but when she saw that the tiefling was looking at the door, she did the same.

Across the room stood a man, whose body was covered in ulcers, cuts, scars, wounds and even though his broken limbs must have been causing him a great deal of pain, the expression on his kind face never changed to something other than loving.

He sat on the bed, where Tyavain had been before, and took Firanis’s hand.

“Heroes always want it all.

“But if they’re truly Heroes… then why are they not selfless enough to rescind from their happy endings? If it means many more will be spared the pain if only a handful suffer… why can’t Heroes give up on what they crave?

“In the end, most Heroes out there are not Heroes at all.

“You, like all of them, wanted to stay with those you loved but you also wanted to end the suffering of those afflicted by the darkness which now consumes you. You couldn’t have them both and thus… you chose.

“You chose their peace over your happiness.”

 

“Your mother said five entities placed their blessings upon your father. Originally, there were only four but there was so much pain, so much _sorrow_ that another one came along.

“It was me. And when your father loved your mother, the blessing I gave him passed down onto you, along with Auril’s. I wanted to spare you but I could not undo the judgment of another God, Firanis; so we gambled you.

“Nevertheless, we forgot there’s such a thing as free will. When we gambled, we had a wild card – someone I had thrown in your way long ago in the hopes you would be able to make him see the world – and himself, - without hate. Someone in so much suffering I sent him to you in the hopes you would share his burden and ease his pain.

“But it wasn’t only his pain you took.

“You chose to take the pain which was not yours into yourself and are dying for it. You, my dear Firanis, have ultimately represented my teachings and for that, I have to step in.”

“I stand by my choice.” A single tear rolled down Firanis’s cheek. “If you are offering me a way out, I do not want it. I’d rather die with the curse than risk it being unleashed on the people I love again.”

“I know. Oh, child, how I know…” Ilmater’s voice broke and he, too, cried. “So many claiming to follow my teachings and one of the few who’s actually done it refuses my help. Your selflessness honor me, little one – so please, hear me out.

“I cannot undo the curse as it was not I who placed it there but I have gambled you – unrightfully so, true, but done so nonetheless – so please, hear me out…”

 

 

Every day, he returned to that place.

Bishop didn’t really know why. He tried not to think about it too much but as soon as he let his mind wander for a bit, he found himself walking in that direction and then… then he couldn’t stop; at least not until he reached the place where _she_ had died.

Perhaps it was just that he still couldn’t believe she was truly dead and that, as long as he kept on going there, he would find her waiting for him, ready to come home…

Come home to… him.

His way up the tower was slow and painful. He knew she would not be there; not today; not tomorrow; not ever. Yet he still went there, every single day, and he stared at the empty walls and ceiling of the room, and he hoped she would return.

A few steps away from the top, Bishop could see just a bit of Shemal’s former throne room and, for the first time since that day, realized that the walls of the room were still covered in soot. No one had had the heart to clean the room up and Bishop hoped that no one would. He wanted the room to stay exactly as it had been when he had held her alive in his arms.

When he finally reached the top, his breath was taken away.

In the middle of the room, there was someone, shining light into the dark room. There was no hair on her head but still, Bishop recognized her immediately. She did not move; her frame was still, her face tight… Bishop thought he was imagining her because… she could not be back. And yet…

“Firanis?”

His voice had been cracked and weak from disuse but still, he knew she had heard him. Her lips parted and tears began cascading down her face. Bishop’s whole body screamed for him to go but he still couldn’t believe she was real. She hadn’t been here in the last three months so, why now?

A little, choked sound made its way past her lips.

And then she ran…

She ran to him.

Bishop thought she was going to pass right through him; but when she collided against his chest she was solid and warm, so warm… Her tears wetted his neck, her arms squeezed his torso so tightly it hurt.

Never had something that hurt him so much felt so good.

She was not an apparition sent to him out of mockery. Firanis was here and she was _alive_.

She pulled away, only slightly, to look at him in the eye. “I lost my powers,” confessed Firanis as she tenderly placed a hand on his cheek. Much to Bishop’s surprise, it was strangely… “It was the cost and—”

“You’re warm,” he softly interrupted, surprise waged into his voice.

Firanis nodded. “Ilmater said that the only way to let the curse go was to let that which protected me from it go as well.” She hiccupped. “I was so afraid, Bishop, that you would not be here once I came back. I was willing to endure unparallel suffering at the hands of that curse until my body finally gave away and it died with me – but to come back here and find you gone?”

“Yet you risked it.”

“Oh, but I had to. For all those who stood by my side, I had to, but in the end I ended up risking everything for Ilwyn. I would endure an eternity without you for her – no matter how much it hurt, for her, I’d do anything. Because she’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever done and because she’s the only thing I have in common with _you_.”

Bishop’s eyes widened and, wordlessly, he brought her closer once more, hear head on his chest and her hands around his waist. He was afraid he was living a dream like he had many times and that soon he would wake up and Firanis would be gone. And Bishop did not want her gone, no; he had thought that once, just like he’d thought he’d be much better off without her and it had been the worst mistake of his life.

He felt and heard her quiet sobs and, against her ear, he whispered, “Why are you always crying when I’m holding you?”

Firanis pulled back only enough to stare at him; then she smiled that beautiful, true smile which dimpled her cheeks and, brushing his cheeks with her thumbs, said, “Why, Bishop… you’re crying as well.”

He realized he was. And he did not care.

“I was so sure you would never come back,” he said. “It was different from Merdelain; back then I hadn’t seen you die, but this time around… It felt so final. And I kept on thinking how much of a fool I had been because I had always assumed you would come back.”

Firanis smiled. Her hand was still on his face, tender and gentle. “Well, I did, didn’t I?”

“And will you stay?”

A grave shadow fell on Firanis’s face, widening her eyes and parting her lips. “Will you?” she breathed.

Bishop fell silent. Firanis was back and his whole being was brimming with happiness. He was so full of that feeling that he felt completely lost. Nothing he could say could possibly express his relief and yet…

“I love you,” Bishop’s confession seemingly came out with a life of its own. A slight blush embarrassingly crept up on his cheeks, but his amber eyes never moved from Firanis’s. “And I hope that is enough.”

Completely taken off-guard, Firanis’s lips slackened slightly in surprise; but then she was smiling again and whispering, “It’s more than enough.” This was, Firanis realized, Bishop’s way of saying that he’d stay – or at the very least try to. It melted her to the core, melted her so thoroughly she no longer felt like she had any reason to leave any words unsaid. “And I think you know I love you too.”

Bishop smiled what had to be his first sincere smile in years. He touched his forehead to Firanis’s and, with a soft finger, tilted her head upward to gingerly place his lips upon hers.

It was the perfect kiss.

Not because it made them simmer; not because of the butterflies in his stomach; not because of the beat his heart skipped; not because the ground shifted and not because the sky trembled.

No. It was the perfect kiss simply because it was true.

“Mom!” A single, shrieking cry broke Firanis and Bishop apart. The aasimar turned and, running towards them with tears in her eyes and a smile from ear-to-ear, was Ilwyn.

“Mom, mom, _mom_!” the young girl half-screamed, half-sobbed, as though she was expecting Firanis to vanish at any moment if she stopped calling her name.

Firanis prepared to spread her arms wide open, but Bishop closed his hand around one of hers, their fingers intertwining. She looked at him and barely had the time to notice his smile before Ilwyn collided against her and the breath was momentarily knocked out of her lungs. Firanis didn’t understand what her daughter was saying, so she wrapped her free arm around Ilwyn’s slender frame and held her tightly. She kissed the top of her daughter’s head, her daughter’s forehead, her daughter’s wet cheeks…

“I sung every day, mom,” Ilwyn was panting, still crying from excitement. “I had to try mom, I had—”

“I know, Ilwyn… I heard you. I always do,” Firanis heard herself saying. “You called me, like you always have. And that’s how I managed to find my way back.”

Ilwyn led Firanis downstairs by the hand and, once down there, Firanis calculated her daughter had felt her return and had called everyone there.

Bishop’s other arm came snaking around her waist, pulling her towards him. His stubble tickled Firanis’s ear as his lips moved against it. “Welcome back,” Bishop warmly whispered.

Across the distance, Firanis could see Elanee, Casavir, Grobnar, Sand, Khelgar and Neeshka, Ammon Jerro and Zhjaeve. As they always had been. But they were not the only ones… Torio - curiously close to Sand, - Yarija and Rimal, Rekat and even Aniel were there as well. There were old friends - and new ones.

This feeling of fulfillment… it was unparalleled.

Firanis looked at Bishop once more and it still was there, that natural, unfettered smile which had formed in his lips earlier. Firanis had never thought she had seen Bishop truly happy… until this very day. She knew he would never be the friendliest person on Faerûn and she knew things would never be truly easy for them; he was not a gentleman and certainly, not a hero. But he was Bishop and she knew he loved her and there was nothing more she could ask of him. There was nothing more she _wanted_ of him.

All that chain of events which had led them here… everything had come full circle. And for that, Firanis was glad. So she rested her head on his shoulder, squeezing his hand and, with all the joy she felt in her heart reflected on her voice said, “I’m home.”

 

**The End**

 


	21. A Final Note

I want to thank everyone who read this. It doesn’t matter if you reviewed or not – if you read this, you have my deepest heartfelt thanks. It’s not just the writer that makes a story meaningful, but the readers as well.

To those who did leave reviews back when this was on ff.net, you have no idea how much your words meant to me. I replied individually through PMs, so you people probably know how truly grateful I am. But again, thank you.

I had never written anything quite like this before and it certainly proved to be a challenge. While I wish I had explored some parts more deeply (such as Ilwyn’s kidnapping and Firanis’s stay in Luskan), I just begun running out of time to write fanfiction and if I wanted to devote myself to my original novels, I had to cut down in certain parts. Still, in overall, I’m very pleased with how this story turned out to be.

 

One last (big) note:

 

One of the many things I tried to exploit in Full Circle was the relationship between two people like Bishop and Firanis. When I first begun writing it, I realized it would take a fool, a saint and a very strong will to love someone like Bishop. It would have to be someone so selfless she’d put the needs of others above her own and someone whose only mistake was to desperately love someone totally undeserving of it. That was when Firanis was born.

My goal with her was to create a character who would do anything for those she treasured the most – even though it might hurt her, she’d do what she thought was best for them.

Now, Bishop… I always saw him as someone who was very proud – but also, as someone whose biggest hatred was for his own person. He had been hurt in the past and the only way he learned to protect himself was just that. He does not understand what someone like Firanis would see in him; she does not fit in his life and neither does she in his patterns – he is used to people who have always asked for something in return and when she doesn’t… Having been faced with something unknown, Bishop runs. He does not want to face his problems and that is exactly what Firanis symbolizes.

 

I believe the one thing I was trying to achieve with them is that things do not always work for the best at first because someone tried to run away – but it does not mean they won’t be fixed later. Sometimes, it’s best to lose someone first and then, after he is mature enough for you, stay with them for life rather than for just a short period of time.

 

Truthfully, I had something entirely different planned for them at the end – but somewhere around the thirteenth chapter of this fanfic, lots and lots of things happened in my life that made me rethink the finale. In her love-sick madness, Firanis had pretty much wasted herself on Bishop; she is the sort of person who is capable of seeing past all the flaws and love someone purely, unselfishly and wholeheartedly.

 

A love so great should never be lived on stolen time; rather, it’s preferable to wait and live it later to its fullest. Hope strongly, truly and honestly that something will happen and it will. Sacrifice yourself out of love for someone you love and ask for nothing but _their_ happiness and sooner or later, you will find your happiness as well. It was with that tone that I wanted to end this.

 

It is true that Bishop did not deserve a happy ending – but Firanis did.

 

Yarija and Rimal… They came along a lot later than everyone else and while I did not have them planned at the beginning, they _did_ make a lot of sense once I had Rimal thrown into the big picture. I could not pair Yarija with Brian – there was a time in which she thought he might be the one she needed but in the end things are not so simple. It was the same for Rimal, who went after something superficial thinking it was all he needed in life.

What I wanted from these two was for them to portray feelings which had been misplaced for a long time. And once they find their right place, it’s hard to come face-to-face with them.

So when Yarija went away, Rimal waited.

 

And then there were Aniel and Rekat. They were perhaps the hardest to write about and between them they have, to my eyes, what is one the strongest forms of love. It is not about redemption and forgiveness like Firanis and Bishop are and neither is it about realizing you’ve been looking the wrong way all along like Rimal and Yarija. It’s about a madness so great, an emotion so pure… it’s frightening. It is something so great they in the end, they came back together because they simply could not bear to be apart.

It was the kind of feeling that even though you know the person you feel that way about is going to kill you, you choose them anyway because you know you’d die much faster without them.

 

Tyavain and Nevalle were actually something I scraped. The age factor did not creep me out, but after I fleshed out the whole thing with Trias (poor Trias… never really had an ending in Planescape,) I did not think she was ready to move on yet. Tyavain is sane in all her madness and deep down she knew she would ruin Nevalle. Her ending was not meant for this – it would have been too abrupt and too clean to finish her story here – she left on her own journey and that is where she will keep on growing.

 

Writing something this big was, first and foremost, a challenge I posed to myself. If I could finish a novel-sized fanfic, I would begin writing my own original novel. It was as simple as that – a commitment I had to fulfill. And now that I have, I can focus solely on my original work.

 

Writing is one of the things I love the most in the world. And I will keep on doing it for as long as I can.

 

 

Themes:

 

Mainly, the songs I listened to while writing. It was because of Rachmaninov’s Prelude that I began labeling the parts according to songs.

Well, it was a long fanfic. So it had a lot of themes! You can even find some of the songs quoted by the characters.

 

 

Part One:

Sergei Rachmaninov – Prelude in C Sharp Minor (Op. 3 no. 2)

Epica – Caught in a Web

Hans Zimmer – Specters in the Fog

Dulce Pontes – _Senhora_ (Lady)

 

Part Two:

Giacomo Puccini - _Mi Chiamano Mimi_ (Aria from _La Bohème_ )

Michael Nyman – Big My Secret

Muse - Assassin

Ahmed Abdel Fattah – Salome’s Seven Veils

 

Part Three:

Frédéric Chopin – Nocturne (Op. 9 No 2)

Kamelot – Wander

Yuki Kajiura – Leave Me Cold

Epica – The Alleged Paradigm

 

Part Four:

Ludwig van Beethoven – Rondo a Cappricio (Op. 129)

Poets of the Fall – Dawn

David Fonseca – This Wind, Temptation

Anathema – The Silent Enigma

 

Part Five:

Johann Sebastian Bach – Fugue in G Major

Muse – Map of the Problematique

Kamelot – Desert Reign/Nights of Arabia

Rita Redshoes – Blue Bird on a Sunny Day

 

Part Six:

The Cistercian Monks of Stift Heiligenkreuz - Communio Lux æterna

Dulce Pontes – _Os Lobos e Ninguém_ (The Wolves and Nobody)

Sonata Arctica – Paid in Full

My Dying Bride – A Kiss To Remember

 

 

Part Seven:

Robert Schumann – Fantasia (Op. 17)

Epica – Linger

Anathema – The Silent Enigma

Poets of the Fall – Diamonds for Tears

 

Part Eight:

George Gershwin – Rhapsody in Blue

Virgin Black – I Sleep with the Emperor

Rui Veloso – Bairro do Oriente ( _Neighborhood of the Orient_ )

Nightwish – Eva

 

 

Part Nine:

Pietro Mascagani – Intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana

Virgin Black – I Sleep With The Emperor

Within Temptation – Our Farewell

Saitou Tsuneyoshi – Kanashimi

 

Part Ten:

Johann Sebastian Bach – Minuet in G minor

Marilyn Manson – Sweet Dreams

Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah

Yann Tiersen – Le Quartier

 

 

Part Eleven:

Ludwig van Beethoven – “The Tempest” Piano Sonata

Sonata Arctica – Two Minds One Soul

Michael Nyman – The Promise

Abney Park – She

 

Part Twelve:

Giulio Caccini - Amarilli

Danny Elfman – Farewell

Hoje – _Gaivota_ (Seagull)

Yuki Kajiura – Love Pain

 

 

Part Thirteen:

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart – Requiem Mass in D Minor

Muse – Space Dementia

Kamelot – Season’s End

Paulo Carvalho – _E Depois Do Adeus_ (And After the Goodbye)

 

Part Fourteen:

Anton Bruckner – Os Justi

Anathema – Angelica

Elfen Lied OST – Shinkai

Nightwish – Ghost Love Score

 

 

Part Fifteen:

Piotr Ilich Tchaikovsky – 1812 Overture

Muse – Time Is Running Out

Tarja Turunen – Oasis

Motoi Sakuraba – Pyroxene of the Heart

 

Part Sixteen:

Francesco Maria Veracini – Ritornello

Yann Tiersen – La Valse d’Amélie

Poets of the Fall – Carnival of Rust

David Fonseca – Superstars II

 

Part Seventeen:

Sergei Rachmaninov – Piano Concerto no. 2

Muse – Dark Shines

Rita Redshoes – Choose Love

 

Part Eighteen:

Bartolomeo Tromboncino - Vergine bella.

Within Temptation – Jillian (I’d Give My Heart)

Motoi Sakuraba – Speaking with the Stars

 

Part Nineteen:

Antonín Leopold Dvořák – Symphony no. 9 “Of The New World”

Dulce Pontes – Os Amantes ( _The Lovers_ )

Virgin Black – Kyre, Requiem

Virgin Black – Forever

 

Part Twenty:

Erik Satie – Gymnopédie no. 1

Muse - Resistance

Secret Garden – Song from a Secret Garden

Dario Marianelli – Your Hands Are Cold

 

Also:

 

Alamaailman Vasarat – Elukka

Hans Zimmer – Hello Beastie

Hans Zimmer – Wheel of Fortune

Poets of the Fall – Clevermind

System of a Down – Question!

Iwasaki Tarou – Nikopol

Iwasaki Taarou – Gattai Nante Kuso Kurae

 

 

 


End file.
